


Far Away, So Close

by commanderlurker (honeybee592)



Series: OTP: You're the boss [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Cats, F/F, F/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 100,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9129727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: Grace Trevelyan travelled to Haven with her parents. The explosion at the Conclave left her as the only survivor. Now she's far from home, has a green mark on her hand that can heal the sky, and is being called the Herald of Andraste. If she cooperates then she'll get to go home, surely.The Iron Bull saw the sky turn green just like everyone else. Now he has new orders: join the Inquisition and find out what's happening. He didn't anticipate there being quite so many demons.A mostly canon compliant story set in Haven.Full disclosure/spoiler: Since this story is pre-Skyhold, Bull and Grace don't *actually* get together in this story. Haven provides the basis for their future relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins. I'm really looking forward to telling Grace's story! This has been a long time coming.

Grace gave one last kiss to Wiggles before bounding down the stairs. Father called for her again and she shouted back that yes, she was on her way. She just had to check on Sami and Lola and then she’d be done. If only she could take them with her, Wiggles too. But Mother hadn’t allowed her to take _anyone_.

She patted Sami. “You be good. Try not to have too many kittens while I’m away,” she said. “And Lola, no fighting.”

Both cats spared her a brief glance of disdain before closing their eyes and settling down on their cushions.

“Grace, come on!” Sebastian this time. “If you hurry, I’ll give you a piggy back all the way to the docks!”

Grace squealed, hopped and skipped out the house, waving goodbye to the gathered servants and leapt onto Sebastian’s waiting back. “Onward, noble steed!” She laughed as he started running. Grace turned back to Mother and Father. “We’ll race you,” she called. She caught a glimpse of them shaking their heads as they climbed into the waiting wagon.

“You can’t hope to beat them,” she said, but Sebastian had already started running.

“Watch me.” He adjusted his grip on Grace as he wound and weaved his way through Ostwick’s cobbled streets. Streets they both knew by heart. Streets they’d grown up on. Camden’s Sweets and Tyme’s Books passed in a blink as Sebastian jiggled Grace down the hill. He ran along Butcher’s Ally, in the middle of the road, dodging carts filled with bleating sheep, leaping over the old dogs that hoped for a stray bone. Once he cleared the tanners, he had a clear run to the harbour. Nothing but sunshine and salt and fish and seagulls. Ships off all sizes moored at the dock but Sebastian had eyes for only one. With no sign of Mother and Father’s carriage ahead or behind, Sebastian slowed to a walk, then dropped Grace to the ground.

“Look.” Grace pointed. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?” The ship may not have been the biggest she had ever seen, but for a week the cog would be her home. Squat and sturdy with one tall mast and room enough for the three Trevelyans and crew.

Sebastian stood next to her, panting, his arm around her shoulder. “You will be okay, won’t you Gracie?”

She looked up at him, wary of the concern in his voice. She’d be fine. She had Mother and Father with her and they’d be travelling well beaten roads.

“I wish I could come with you,” he said. “But, duty calls.” He sighed. Grace followed his glance at the Chantry far up the hill behind them, then back to the cog. “A grand adventure! Try not to have too much fun without me.”

Grace squeezed her brother and promised that she would be fine. She was nervous, yes, but oh so excited, delighted at the prospect of adventure.

Their parents’ carriage rolled up woefully late and Mother and Father pulled Sebastian into a crushing hug.

“You behave yourself, Sebastian,” Father said. “Listen to your Knight Commander, follow his orders.”

“Do us proud, son. And try not to get anyone pregnant, please.” Mother said, dry as always.

Sebastian put his hand over his heart and promised to behave. “I’ll be a Templar when you get back, you have my word.”

One more tight hug and three Trevelyans boarded the ship, leaving one on the docks.

Grace raced along the deck, avoiding the crew throwing ropes around and loosening ties. The pair yelled endearments to one another, Grace reminding Sebastian to feed her cats and Sebastian reminding Grace not to bring any more home with her.

The horn sounded and the captain called. With a lurch, the ship pulled away from the dock and into the harbour.

“Goodbye, Gracie! Next time I see you, you better have a husband!” Sebastian called, waving frantically.

Grace laughed, waving and blowing kisses. “A new brother for you, brother!”

They continued to wave and shout until their voices couldn’t heard and their arms were sore. Grace leaned against the railing, still watching as Ostwick grew smaller and smaller. Tears welled and ran into her smile, happiness and anticipation mixing with sudden homesickness. She took a shuddering breath and wiped her face. All would be fine. They’d cross the Waking Sea, land in Jader, ride to Haven, attend the Conclave, then travel through Ferelden, stopping at a few key estates that held Trevelyan interests. And maybe, hopefully, if all went well, Grace would meet the man of her dreams and he’d return to Ostwick so they could have a summer wedding and--oh, how _perfect_ it will all be!

Once Sebastian was nothing more than a speck in her eye and the Chantry a dot on the hill, Grace sighed and turned away. Down in the cabin, Mother would have their quarters all laid out and maybe even some food.

*

The ocean heaved and rolled and for the upteenth time, Grace leant over the railing, voiding her stomach into the sea while her mother rubbed her back. She didn’t care how long it took, their return trip would be by land. Barely kept a meal down since leaving Ostwick and not even the first mate’s special seasickness concoction helped, though from the taste of it, Grace suspected it was nothing more than fermented sea water.

“You never were one for the sea,” Mother said.

“How much longer?” Grace shivered despite the cloying heat of her clothes.

Mother wiped Grace’s hair off her sticky forehead. “Two more days, darling.”

Grace groaned and threw up again.

*

The Iron Bull tapped the end of his quill against his eyepatch as he pondered how to start his report. In the tavern downstairs, music and voices, and ale flowed freely from casks. Feminine giggles came through the wall next to him and he wondered which of his boys had managed to score. Rocky, probably. Maybe this time he’d last more than two minutes. Par Vollen didn’t need to know about the proclivities of his mercenary band. Short and to the point. That’s all they needed. Any flourishes and they’d get suspicious. Couldn’t have him having too much fun out here. He consulted his cypher then put quill to paper.

_Duke Charlon proved to be a decent enough employer. He contracted the Iron Bull’s Chargers to clear his summer house of those massive spiders the south cultivates. Too nervous though. Orlesians. Always hiding something. Didn’t want us going into the basement but we did anyway. A door poorly concealed behind a rack of casks lead to a tunnel that went far underground. This must be the tunnel Tallis-559-824-153 suggested, the one that links to the Deep Road entrance near Lydes. I will send word to her, too. She can flush out the lyrium smugglers._

  * _Hissrad-558-987-454_



Done. The Iron Bull let the ink dry then folded the note, stamped it, and set it safely away for delivery. Now to see if Rocky had left any willing partners for him.

*

After seven long days at sea, the Trevelyan’s cog docked at a rickety old jetty that looked like it was one good storm away from being swept away completely. Some place Jader was, with dockyards tinier than Ostwick’s.

Grace rushed off the gangplank and almost fell to the ground. Dry land. Oh how wonderful to be on dry land. She wobbled, like she was still on the sea. Father caught her before she fell completely.

A sharp laugh made her look up.

“Not got your legs back, Marcher?” A boy, no older than her, sneered at Grace as he hauled rope. Her cheeks flushed red and she concentrated on the ground. One foot in front of the other until she reached the wagon that would take them to Haven. She slumped in the back, exhausted and homesick.

*

Jader felt so long ago but they’d only been travelling a couple of days. Winding up and up a pass barely wide enough for the wagon, Grace, Mother and Father bounced and jostled in the back, watching the Frostbacks grow ever bigger. Maker, _real_ mountains with real snow. The coach driver, Henri was quite the delight. When he wasn’t chatting to the horses, he’d point out peaks and rivers and little snippets of history related to them. He made excellent tea and could rustle up a dinner even during a complete blizzard. Every now and then he’d ask Father a question about the family that gave Grace the impression that he was more than just a hired coach.

“Will you make contact with old Aunt Anne while you’re in Ferelden?” Henri asked Father. He spoke around a pine needle that stuck out between his teeth.

Father pursed his lips and Mother scoffed. “Ferelden’s a big country, Henri,” Father replied.

Henri plucked the pine needle from his teeth and barked a bitter laugh. “That your way of saying you can hide from her? How’d’you know she won’t be at the Conclave?”

“Maker preserve us,” muttered Mother.

“Last I heard she’d moved to the coast on the advisement of her doctor. Something about Denerim making her humours damp,” Father said.

Henri laughed again. “Like Amaranthine is any better! If she wants sunshine she should’ve moved to Antiva.”

Grace watched the exchange with wide eyed wonder as it lapsed into not-altogether-pleasant reminiscing. Grace knew Aunt Anne as the relative that her exhausted parents threatened to send naughty children to, but when Henri said by-the-by that she probably still held a grudge against him for stealing a handful of boiled lollies when he was three, all the pieces fell into place. “Henri! Are you a Trevelyan?”

Henri turned and gave a slow nod. “Yup. Got Trevelyans all over the Thedas. Even in Tevinter. My great grandmother said we came from there, even. Our side of the family always were a little loopy, right, Seamus?” He winked at Father then turned back and gave the horses a clip.

“No! Really? Tevinter?”

Father grinned. “Really.”

Grace sat back, stunned. She’d had no idea. The Trevelyans were the oldest and most noble family in Ostwick, long supporters of the Chantry, sons and daughters filling the Chantry and Templar ranks for generations. She knew they were a big family, too, if the numbers of people coming out from everywhere to join in the Wintersend festivities were any indication. But Tevinter! That was as far north as you could get! Well, as far north as humans could go before wandering into the qunari of Par Vollen. But as large and as important as her family was, she’d not learned much about them. She really only felt close kinship for Mother, Father, and Bassy. They were all she needed. Any more and she forgot their names.

Henri navigated the travelers safely through the Frostbacks pass and down into Ferelden in only a handful of days. Each night the party pulled up in a clearing and pitched tents. Once the fire had been started and dinner cooked, they retired for bed. Night came quickly under the pines, forcing Grace to close her book early. She fell asleep easily, used to lumpy bedrolls and piles of furs.

One morning, as they wound their way through icy paths, their wagon rolled up to a pair of wizened old men walking with staffs, their bags slung over their shoulders.

“Should we offer them a ride?” Grace asked. The men looked awfully old and cold. They didn’t even have boots on, just soft shoes like you’d wear in a castle.

On Father’s nod, Henri pulled alongside the pair.

“Fancy a lift, sers?” He called.

The men turned in unison, eyeing the wagon with suspicion. One of them gripped his staff, angling it forward. Grace flicked between him and his companion. Their staffs were made of gnarled wood, topped with round crystals. _Mages!_

“We don’t mean to cause trouble. We are only headed to the conclave,” one said. His voice croaked, as if he hadn’t spoken for ages.

“We’re going there too. Please, you’re welcome to travel with us.” Father held his hands out and spoke like he was placating an angry mabari.

Still they hesitated.

“Listen to the good man. Even by horse we’re still two days out. Think you’ll make it in this weather?” Henri said.

The men continued to stare, as if frozen in place. Why wouldn’t they just get in?

Father leaned forward and spoke in a low tone, though no one else was around. “We’ve no problem with mages, apostates or no. Please, ride with us.”

The men looked at each other and appeared to have an entire conversation with only their eyes. They looked back at Father. “Very well.”

Grace and Henri jumped down to help the men into the cart while Mother and Father made space amongst the luggage. Once they were comfortable and Henri had roused the horses, they introduced themselves, Cedric and Westby. Grace offered the visitors cheese. They nibbled as Mother asked where they had traveled from.

“Jainen, serrah.”

Jainen! That was all the way on the Ferelden coast! Grace held her tongue but her surprise was shared by her parents.

“Have you walked all this way?” Mother asked.

“What choice did we have? The young mages, drunk on rebellion, burnt our Circle to the ground. We were left homeless. Even the templars wanted nothing to do with us. We heard about the conclave from a tavern and hoped…”

Grace watched them talk and realised they weren’t nearly as old as she’d first thought. Their faces were brown and weatherbeaten, their wrinkles recent rather than woven over time.

“We’ve never walked so far in our lives,” Cedric said. “I hope never to walk again. Just lay me in a bed when we arrive, will you Westby?”

Westby took Cedric’s hand in his and gave a feeble squeeze. His attention returned to Father. “And where have you come from?”

“Ostwick. We’re the Chantry’s delegation.”

“Ah, Trevelyans?”

“You know of us?” Grace couldn’t help herself so surprised was she.

“You’re well known, even on this side of the Waking Sea.” Westby said with a hint of mystery.

“Wasn’t there a Trevelyan at Jainen? A Templar. Not nearly as kind as you,” Cedric said. He shivered, a bone-wracking shudder that threatened to shake his very body apart. Mother threw another fur around his and Westby’s shoulders and soon the pair fell asleep, leaning against each other.

As they got closer to Haven, their company increased. Numerous travellers to the Conclave joined the track from other mountain passes. Henri called out to a few wagon drivers, recognising them and passing friendly insults.

Two days later the wagon rolled into Haven. Henri was reduced to a crawl as people rushed past going all directions. Grace looked around in wonder. Such a small village! And hosting such an important event. And the noise! After so long at sea, and then just with family, the cacophony of strangers roared in Grace’s ears. Oh, and the _smell_.

Haven didn’t even have cobbled streets, just muddy tracks lined with muddy snow. Straw had been thrown onto the muddiest parts but carts still got bogged down and any unsuspecting pedestrians could find themselves ankle deep in disgusting, freezing water if they weren’t careful. Grace peered down at them, glad that she wore her hunting boots. Thick leather laced up to the knee with a heel that gave a nice clop when she walked over cobbles but stayed soft when she skulked through forest.

Henri pulled up outside the only tavern and helped Cedric and Westby down. When they shouldered their bags, they slumped and once again they became old men.

“Thank you, Trevelyans. We will remember your kindness. And who knows, maybe we will see you at the meetings.”

Grace waved goodbye, sad to see her companions go. She worried for them, too, but they had come all this way on their own so surely they would be okay now.

*

Snow fell in thick clumps, all sleety and wet. Grace had finished reading the box of books she’d brought from home on the fourth day and with little else to do but shiver in the wooden shack her family had been assigned, she went outside in search of adventure.

Alas, the locals proved to be hostile, displeased at having their village turned into a circus. The tavern, while warm, was full of people Father had warned her to stay away from. She’d’ve gone hunting if only she’d brought Nathalia. A bowl of fresh goat stew wouldn’t go amiss in this weather. Pity the cooks didn’t know how to cook a decent broth. Fereldens shunned garlic on account of it being too Orlesian, apparently. Heathens.

With nothing better to do, Grace tugged her fennec fur coat tighter around her and trudged up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to see what all the fuss was about. The Divine herself was here, presiding over the talks that would reunite the mages and the templars. Maker, what a job. Better her than Grace. Sisters and Templars recited the Chant of Light as they stood around braziers, warming their hands. They sounded dead and cold, reciting the prayer on reflex, the meaning long since lost to them. Grace frowned and walked faster, though she knew the chanting and incense would only be worse inside the temple itself.

A pair of large grey qunari stood guard at the gate, solid and intimidating. They looked identical, deeply set eyes and grim expressions carved into their faces, both with horns that curled back and under--like a ram’s. They could have been statues but for the way they turned their heads to assess Grace.

“Do you have a pass, my lady?” The one on the right spoke with a low Ferelden accent. The dissonance caught Grace by surprise and she jumped before digging through the purse at her hip to find her stamped pass. She held it up to the qunari. He took it from her and read her name aloud. The other qunari nodded. Grace took her pass back and the pair let her in.

First Enchanters and Knight Commanders from all over Orlais, Ferelden and the Free Marches gathered in the main hall, sat around a round table in the centre. The seat of the Most Holy Divine Justinia and the two either side of her sat empty while Grand Clerics from each of Thedas’ countries fanned out around the table. Mages and Templars, representatives from Circles and noble houses filled the rest of the hall, silent, concentrating on those speaking at the centre.

Grace slipped along the back wall, finding a spot close to the fire. She craned around those in front of her, up on tiptoes, and spotted Mother and Father at the table next to First Enchanter Michael and Knight Commander Elizabeth. She smiled at Ostwick’s delegation, well dressed in furs and armor so shiny it gleamed. The Trevelyan crest sparkled on Father’s breast plate.

She picked out other delegates either by recognising their faces or crests. But once the talking started in earnest, her eyes glazed over. She fixed a smile like she’d been taught and let her mind wander. The qunari at the gate had been a surprise. They weren’t like the few that had come to Ostwick after that mess at Kirkwall. Mother had told her to stay away from those ones and from the tone she’d used, Grace hadn’t felt like disobeying her just to sate her curiosity. But those ones at the gate--Maker, they were so much bigger than she thought they’d be. And… rugged! She’d have to ask Mother about them, find out why they were allowed here.

“My mages will never be collared to the Circles again.” That was First Enchanter Michael! “We have endured enough at the hands of the Templars. We all know what the chant says: Magic is meant to serve man, not rule over him. But what has happened to us? The Chantry does not allow us to serve, so fearful they are of what they do not understand.”

Maker, he always seemed so nice but here he was yelling. Beside him, Knight Commander Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared at the table.

“In the blessed name of Andraste, are we going to argue hermeneutics all day?” Grace didn’t recognise the speaker, and didn’t know what he meant, but the majority of the hall must have for they all erupted into shouts and jeers.

Grace gritted her teeth at all the arguing and fought to get out. She had to force her way back through the crowd, arms up around her face to avoid wayward elbows and pointing fingers. She made it to the door and ran down the corridor, not caring which way she went. Maker, how awful! And Mother and Father had sat through four days of that already? They’d never made a decision if they carried on like that.

As she stopped to see where she’d actually ended up, a flicker caught the corner of her eyes. Too big to have been a rat. Faint skittering came from the direction it’d darted in. A cat? Maker, please let it have been a cat. Without pausing for a second thought, she went in search of whatever it was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull makes his appearance. Shit gets real for Grace.

The whole sky cracked and boomed louder than thunder. That’s what caused the Iron Bull to look up. Thunder he was used to. The sky shaking? And going… green? Not so much. He paused in sharpening his axe and turned to see the rest of the Chargers looking up at the sky, too.

“Hey, Krem. What do you think that all means?” he asked.

“I think it means we should break open a cask, Chief.”

Bull smiled, the scar on his lip twisting. “You’re a good lieutenant. Have I told you that recently?”

Krem stood up and went over to the casks. “Every day chief, every day.”

*

The tears had dried up long ago. Unable to shed any more, Grace resorted to hiccup sobs that wracked her body. Everything hurt. Her back, her head, legs and arms. Her hand, especially her hand. In the gloom she flexed her fingers and green light sparked from her left hand. _Maker, what?_ She jerked away but she came up short. Manacles bound both wrists, digging in too tight. The dank damp of wherever she was seeped through her bones, making her shiver. Where was she? How long had she been here? Felt like weeks but she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything.

She was alone by the sounds of it. The green sparked from her hand again, providing a little light to see by. Rotten straw, cold stone. Bars. _A dungeon._

“Bassy!” she called, voice croaking. “This isn’t funny. Let me out!”

As she tried to dredge up a recent memory, a door swung open and she was dragged to her feet. Maker, they were hurting her, squeezing her arms too tight. She sobbed again, tried to stand, walk on her own but all that earned her was an order to shut up. Grace bit her lip to stop herself from whimpering, not that it did much good. The guards threw her on the floor and stepped back, swords drawn. What did they think she would do?

Grace’s hand tingled, her fingers clawed, the veins on the back of her hand popping out as her palm flared green. She gasped. It burned, hurt her. What had happened to her? What _was_ that?

Another door slammed open and two women entered, one in armour, the other’s face hidden behind a hood. One stalked up to Grace, rage carved into her face. Grace shrank back. She’d yelled at Grace before, though she could hardly remember it. Nothing made any sense, none of this made any sense. Maybe this was all a bad dream and she’d wake up in bed, at home, with Hunter curled against her back.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the woman said.

Grace said nothing, too terrified to speak.

“Explain this.” She grabbed Grace’s hand, the one that glowed green and stung.

“I--I can’t! I don’t know what happened! Please, you have to believe me. My parents--” Grace stammered.

“Enough!”

Grace squeezed her eyes against the shouting, tears pricking again.

“Leave her, Cassandra,” the other woman said.

Grace chanced a glance up, saw… Cassandra… mollified by the hooded woman. She walked up to Grace now, face shrouded in shadow.

“What do you remember?” A kinder voice, not like her mother’s, but kinder at least.

Grace closed her eyes, tried to pick out anything, anything at all. But all she could conjure was the majesty and stuffiness of the Temple. A scrape on the stone had her flinching away and she started babbling, anything to keep from being hit again. “I was at the Conclave. I fell somewhere. There was a woman… She held her hand out. I couldn’t reach. I--”

The women murmured, too quiet for Grace to hear. Footsteps receded and Grace opened her eyes to see the hooded woman stalking out of the dungeon. Cassandra knelt beside Grace and the tears started again. The rattle of metal, cold, hard against her. “No more, please,” she whimpered.

The ground lurched as she was hauled up, a strong arm gripping her elbow. The manacles fell to the floor, knocking her knee with a sharp pang, causing another sob.

“Follow me,” Cassandra ordered.

Grace stumbled behind, legs aching, pain shooting up her back as she was lead up steps. The gloom of the dungeon gave way to bright daylight. Only, the sky was green, like her hand. A great whirling cloud covered the sky. The sun shone weakly from the horizon.

“We call it the breach,” Cassandra said, staring up at the sky. “Demons pour out of it.” Fear now, not rage, leaked through her voice.

Grace’s hand flared again, sharp pain pulling her arm towards the sky. She collapsed on the ground, holding her wrist.

Cassandra knelt down beside her. “Each time the breach erupts, so does the mark on your hand. It is killing you. But it may also be the key.”

“I don’t understand,” she mumbled. Nothing made any sense. Breach? Demons! Cassandra gave her a hard glare, like she didn’t believe Grace. But she _had_ to. Someone had to understand what had happened, surely. Mother or Father, if Cassandra just asked them...

Cassandra ignored her. “Leliana is going to the forward camp. We will meet her there after testing a theory.”

Grace shivered as she followed Cassandra through the encampment and not just because of the snow and crisp air. The people… they glared at her like she was filth. One man spat at her. Shame and embarrassment crawled over her skin. This wasn’t her fault. Surely they’d be able to see that. Maybe at this camp this mess will get sorted and she’d get sent home.

But how was this… thing on her hand supposed to fix the hole in the sky?

“Stay here,” Cassandra shouted. “I’ll deal with it.”  
  
What was she talking about? Grace looked to see--no, couldn’t be. A demon? How could there be demons? Real demons here and not-- It shrieked as Cassandra swung her sword at it. Grace whimpered, running back and hiding behind an overturned cart. Grace blocked her ears, the shrieking and cries too much for her. Demons shouldn’t be here. They should be locked in the Fade, far away from here. Only mages went there, didn’t they? And only then in dreams--

The light behind her eyes darkened; the only sound, wind whipping through the trees. She hesitated a peek. Cassandra loomed above, holding out a bow.

“You are an archer, if I am not mistaken,” she said.

Grace nodded.

Cassandra passed her the bow and a quiver, from where Grace didn’t know. “You are still my prisoner.” She stepped back, allowing Grace to get to her feet. The bow felt wrong, too light in the grip and too thick at the neck. The string looked like it would snap in a stiff breeze.

Apparently Cassandra trusted Grace enough not to shoot her in the back for she stomped off along the path. Grace ran to catch up, legs burning in the cold. The pair encountered another demon not far up the path. Fear lanced through Grace, but she heard her brother’s voice in her mind. _Concentrate. Breathe. Aim._ She notched her arrow, took aim, fired. The demon hissed and dissipated. Grace smiled. She could do this, whatever this was. _Well done, Gracie_.

Cassandra kept a fast pace, kept them moving forward through the snow and over rocks, through a river. The sky cracked and boomed, lightning searing her hand. It flared green again, the pain too much, sending to her to the ground, clutching her hand, howling from pain and shock.

“We need to get to the rift.” Cassandra said, dropping down to kneel in front of Grace. “You can do this,” she added, voice soft.

Grace looked up at her. Those eyes that had been so hard, so full of rage just a few minutes ago, those eyes were now soft. Cassandra stood up, held her hand out for Grace. Her hand was warm, smile reassuring despite her sharp features. Then she was off, sword and shield ready to fight whatever enemies came their way.

Grace fell into a pattern. This was almost like the competitions with her brother. Only with more snow. And demons. If he could see her now. He’d be proud. And her parents...

At the top of a hill, surrounded by half collapsed stone buildings, the air shone green, demons all around, more than she’d encountered already, seemingly coming from a tear in the centre of a courtyard. Others fought them, all a blur. Before Grace could reach back for an arrow, someone grabbed her hand and pointed it at the tear. Her hand glowed and light flared out, the air charged with lightning, a crack, then the tear was gone, sealed up.

She tore her wrist from the person’s grasp, holding it herself. _Maker’s breath…_ She turned wide eyed to the person who’d grabbed her. An elf, bald, with kind blue eyes and a soft smile.

“As I thought. Well done.” Oh, he had the softest voice. Best of all, he wasn’t yelling at her. In that sonorous voice he told her what she already knew: that she was no mage, but she didn’t understand what he said next. “This mark, it is magical, but not like any magic I’ve ever seen. I theorised the mark might be able to close these rifts that have opened in the breach’s wake--and it seems I was correct.”

Another man piped up, the dwarf she’d seen during the fight. “Good to know we’ve got help now. Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He joined Grace and held out his hand. He spoke as she shook. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally an unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at Cassandra and Grace suppressed a smile. Rogue indeed. But his name made Grace do a double take. She looked him up and down. No… couldn’t be. Really?

“Are you _the_ Varric Tethras? The one who wrote The Tale of the Champion? You’re friends with _the_ Hawke!”

Varric smirked while Cassandra grunted. “That’s me.”

Grace could hardly believe her eyes! The author of her favourite book! Here! In the middle of nowhere and fighting demons! Maker’s breath. Then her eye caught what he’d holstered on his back. “That crossbow is wonderful!” Grace blurted the words out then blushed.

Varric didn’t seem to mind. He patted the crossbow the way Grace would pat a cat. “Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

“Bianca? That’s beautiful. My bow is called Nathalia. Not this one,” Grace hastened to add. “My bow at home. We’ve had some wonderful adventures together.”

Varric grinned. “I think you’ll fit in nicely. But I didn’t catch your name. Cassandra here has just been calling you, ‘the prisoner’. Technically true, but the truth is usually boring.”

Cassandra huffed.

Grace blushed again. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been so rude. I’m Grace Trevelyan of Ostwick. Pleased to meet you.” She turned to the elf. “And you, too.”

He inclined his head. “I’m Solas. Seeing you alive is a great relief.”

Since the pair weren’t treating her like she was responsible for that tear in the sky, she hazarded a question. “My parents. Did you… they were there, too.”

Solas’ expression darkened. “I’m sorry. You were the only person to leave the Temple alive.”

Grace quivered. Her lip wobbled, vision blurring as tears welled yet again.

While Grace sobbed silently, Solas and Cassandra spoke. Then Cassandra set off again, not waiting for the others. Solas rested his hand on Grace’s shoulder, gave her another kind smile before following. She couldn’t walk though, bile rising in her throat. She bent over, heaved, but nothing came out, just a choked cry.

“Here, have this.” Varric proffered a flask but Grace waved it away. “It’s just water. Although, I do have some harder stuff stored away at the forward camp.”

Grace thanked Varric, and swallowed down the water. Cool and refreshing, like it had just been filled from a mountain stream.

“Come on. The Seeker doesn’t like dawdlers.”

*

Fear to jubilation to despair. Though Grace felt much more comfortable setting off again with these new people in the group, her movements were numb and automatic. The shock of her parents’ death hadn’t quite hit yet, but it would soon. She just had to hold herself together a little while longer. She concentrated on her new companions instead, revelling in the company of Varric Tethras. And he knew how to wield Bianca. She supposed she should be wary of Solas. He was an apostate, after all, but the mages at home never caused any trouble. Though they were stuck in the circle for the most part. But Solas, he was nice. And he kept the demons away.

Cassandra led the group to the forward camp. Set up in a gate house along a length of tall stone wall, it was more fortified than a mere forest camp. The big wooden gate was guarded and well oiled. As the soldiers manning it hurried to push it open fully Grace caught glimpses of more soldiers rushing to and fro. Cassandra marched the group through like it was her own personal castle. The place was in disarray; fires smouldering, crates scattered everywhere, soldiers lying on the ground and groaning while others attended to them. Some of them recognised Grace and they stepped back, anger, fear or revulsion clear on their faces. Grace wanted to slink away, escape into the shadows and hope this was all a bad dream. She crept closer to Cassandra, despite how scared of her she was. Maybe her status as her prisoner could protect Grace from the rabble.

An argument, voices rising over the wind and bustle. A chantry chancellor frothing at the mouth and yelling at Leliana. And Cassandra led the group straight to him. He recoiled when he saw Grace.

“You’re the reason they’re all dead!” He pointed his finger at her and though he stood on the other side of a table, that bony finger cut right to her heart. “Arrest her! Take her away! I order you!”

Grace started to step back. She hadn’t done anything! Cassandra stepped forward, trapping Grace.

“Order me? You are a glorified clerk.” Cassandra spat out the words. She must’ve have dealing with this particular bureaucrat before but Maker, she was mighty impressive when she was angry. Grace knew that all too well. Seeing her fury directed at someone else was little comfort. Grace’s skin prickled with sweat as the two continued to argue.

Finally the chancellor stood down. He looked out over the camp, at the crumbling stone walls, the meagre troops. “We are defeated.” He sighed.

Cassandra and Leliana disagreed. “The prisoner can seal the rifts. We will return to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

The Temple of Sacred Ashes. Then she was still in the Frostbacks. The crisp air, deep valleys. She must have ridden through this path here with her parents on their way to the Conclave. How long ago was that now? And she was the only one left. No, she didn’t want to return to the Temple. She turned away, bewildered, looking down the hill into the valley below. Rifts filled the floor with pockets of smoke and fire dotted throughout.

Cassandra huffed. Grace tore her gaze away from the horror of the valley and stared at the ground in front of her. Cassandra’s black leather boots scuffed the stone. Leliana’s tan boots stepped into view. Grace didn’t raise her head, but she couldn’t help but hear their discussion. She couldn’t help but notice the flowers stitched up the inside of Leliana’s boots, either.

Cassandra announced that a small group would take the mountain path, avoiding the valley and the demons. She barked orders to someone behind her, then she marched off. Grace still hadn’t looked up. Varric gave her a friendly shove.

*

Grace was pleased with herself for being able to keep up as their group travelled up the pass. While she walked she thought about home. Wondered if Sebastian had remembered to take the goat skins from the tanning bath. She didn’t want to come home to find a pile of congealed skins, not after she’d spent so long scraping the fat off. Even once they’d been tanned she’d have her work cut out for her, rubbing the skins to soften them. Then she’d brush the fur and shake them out, and Hunter would have new blankets. Hopefully he wouldn’t scratch these ones to pieces.

All thoughts of Hunter came to a halt with the people in front of Grace. She edged her way forward to peer over Cassandra’s shoulder. She gasped, horrified. The Temple of Sacred Ashes lay below. Or, more accurately, the ruins of the Temple. One of those rifts whirled in the middle. Only this one was massive. Huge. It loomed over the ruins like a thunder cloud, reaching high into the sky. Grace’s hand sparked and she whimpered and stepped back, bumping into Solas. He rested his hand on her shoulder, warm and steadying.

“It is okay. I believe that you will be able to close the rift, just like last time,” Solas said. And there was that smile again. Grace could get used to that smile. She returned a weak one of her own. How could someone who didn’t know her believe in her so?

Cassandra turned back, those hard eyes staring at Grace. “This is where you walked out of the Fade. They say a woman was behind you. No one knows who she was.” Grace didn’t even know that she’d been _in_ the Fade. Maker, the Chantry said that no one had ever physically walked the Fade, except the ancient Tevinters but that was so long ago that no one really knew what they’d done. Even mages only visited in their dreams. People just didn’t go there. Couldn’t! But if Grace had, if she had walked out of the Fade through a rift, then… was she a demon now? “Come on. We need to get down there to seal the rift.”

Grace stepped forward, looked over the edge again, down. So far down. Demons lurked. “If it’s all the same, I might stay here.”

Cassandra saw straight through her. “No.”

Oh. Okay then.

Grace turned her head away as they passed charred bodies. These people. They’d all died, but she hadn’t. She fought back tears. They might be her mother, her father. But there was no way to tell. Just burnt shells now. The smell caught in her throat, made her want to retch. Solas’ hand on her arm only made her feel worse. He’d done so much for her, a mere stranger, she the one who’d caused all this. He wasn’t like Cassandra who only seemed to want to keep Grace around because she needed her. Well, Solas thought she was needed, but he at least made her feel welcome and free from blame.

A deep voice boomed through the ruins, coming from no one in particular.

_Now is the hour of our victory_.

Grace shuddered. What… was that? Her stomach churned when Cassandra and Solas exchanged a rush of hissed words as they looked around, weapons drawn. They’d heard the voice too and they were afraid. Maker, if they were afraid, what hope did Grace have? The group descended a crumbling flight of stairs and the rift loomed overhead.

_Keep the sacrifice still_. Grace felt the voice in her whole body.

Oh, Maker. With a nudge from Solas, Grace stepped forward. Her hand sparked, stung. It still hurt but she’d become so used to it now that it just throbbed, the pain turning numb. Her arm lifted on its own, palm held out to the rift. Voices came from inside, the deep voice and another, a woman’s, protesting. _No! What are you doing?_ So familiar…

_What’s going on?_ A shrill, girlish voice. That was... Grace! That was her! Her voice leaked through the rift, confused, but not as confused as Grace was right now. She gaped at the rift, then turned when Cassandra nudged her. Cassandra glared, half rage half fear, urging her to do… something.

_We have an intruder. Slay her._ The booming voice.

They sky shattered. The air turned green. Grace stood frozen in place. In the back of her mind the voices clung to a vision that all seemed so real. The memory of seeing the Divine, a black being, it felt real, but fuzzy at the edges.

“You were there! Who was that? What happened?” Cassandra shouted.

Grace stammered, backing away. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Be ready for demons,” she ordered, lifting her sword but seemingly unwilling to tear her attention from Grace.

The troops dispersed, taking up positions around the ruins. The rift shimmered, suspended in the air. It pulsed, harsh, then demons came pouring out.

“Kill them,” Solas said while dragging her off to a safe distance.

Grace did as she was told, running and jumping onto a rock, one she hoped demons couldn’t climb. She fired arrow after arrow, barely able to follow the movements of everyone. Arrows flew not just from her bow, but from others too. Varric could be heard cooing to Bianca. Solas’ magic was a sight to behold, but Grace couldn’t concentrate on that. She kept firing long past her endurance, her arms aching, fingers cramping. But she couldn’t stop. Not until all the demons were gone.

While Grace fumbled with her quiver, Solas told her to get closer to the rift, closer to seal it forever.

“Stay with me.” Her voice wavered, fear bubbling through her.

Solas nodded and held out his hand to help her down from the rock.

“I’ll keep the demons away,” he said, firing off magic while they snuck closer to the rift.

The air vibrated this close, drowning out all sounds of the battle. Grace relied on Solas, unable to open her eyes for herself.

“Go! Now!”

She stuck her hand out and felt the light flow from her. Her whole body shook as the energies connected. With a booming crack that had her stumbling back, the rift closed. The air shimmered, clouds and blue instead of green. Grace fell back, dropping her bow and landing awkwardly, roaring deafening her ears, vision fading until there was only darkness. Black. The void.


	3. Chapter 3

The Iron Bull studied the missive he’d received that morning. New orders. Hadn’t had those for a while. Took him a moment to realise what they were at first, so used to giving orders instead of taking them. Still, orders were orders. He looked at his men and women, watched Stitches patch up a ghastly cut on Dalish’s arm. Krem sliced off meat from the boar that cooked over the fire. He swallowed it down along with his ale. They’d have to move a ways east. Go through those damn mountains. He shivered at the prospect. Might even have to put on a shirt, or at least skin a few goats. Hopefully no more demons. Fucking demons. He’d gladly get behind any group sworn to rid the world of those creatures.

“Chargers,” he called. “We move at dawn.”

A collective groan came up from the group.

“We’ve only just sat down,” Krem complained.

Bull frowned. “Cut the backchat. No rest for the wicked, you know that.”

*

Grace’s head wasn’t pounding in agony, surprisingly. Foggy and confused, yes, but no pain. What a nice change. She cracked her eyes open and looked around. Was she home? No. This room wasn’t hers but it looked familiar. She flopped back down, hitting her hand against the wall in the process. _Ow_. As she shook it out the memories came back. The mark on her hand was still there, those tears in the air and the way she could close them. Somehow. Oh, Maker, why did this have to happen to her?

“My lady Herald. You’re awake.”

Grace sat up and followed the voice to see Solas standing at a bookshelf. He had a soft smile. What had he called her? Herald?

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He walked away from the bookshelf and took a seat next to Grace.

She frowned, rubbing her head because that seemed the most appropriate reaction. “I think I’m okay. But what of the breach? Is it over? The rift, is it closed?”

“The breach has been slowed, though not completely healed. Closing it will require immense power but you have done well to achieve as much as you have. And the mark on your hand has also stopped spreading. You shouldn’t die from it. Not yet, anyway.”

Well that was a stroke of good news. Grace pulled her hair tie out and shook her hair, cringing at the greasiness. She’d need to bathe soon. Then she noticed her clothes. They weren’t the ones she’d been traveling in. Those lay folded on a table by the bed.

“How do you dream?” Solas asked. He looked at her with an intensity she hadn’t expected.

She couldn’t recall any dreams and said so, stammering. He didn’t seem satisfied with her answer, but she could say no more. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her feet finding a sheepskin on the floor and a pair of sheepskin lined boots.

“Am I still a prisoner?” Even if she was, this room was a far cry from the stinking dungeon she’d been in.

Solas raised an eyebrow and looked away. “That question would best be directed at Cassandra.”

Well, that was hardly a definitive answer. “Let’s find her then. I should see about going home.” She tugged on her boots over what appeared to be pyjamas.

Solas stood with her. “Allow me to accompany you. But please, eat first.” He brought over a tray of bread and cheese and her stomach rumbled. She must’ve been out for a while if she was so hungry. She wolfed down the food, peering out the window as she did so. Snow. Still in the mountains then. Her mouth too full to ask where they were exactly. Once she was done, Solas handed her a coat and together they headed out.

Outside, the wind nipped at her cheeks and her hand pulsed and glowed. She shoved it in her pocket. Hopefully she could procure some gloves soon. Only one person guarded her cabin. That must be a good sign. No longer a prisoner, no longer distrusted.

Solas lead the way though he walked next to Grace. He took his time, watching Grace from the corner of his eye. Maybe he thought she’d be slow after her efforts at the Temple. Though she felt fine, she appreciated the pace. She looked around at the ramshackle collection of cabins and tents covered in snow, thinking they looked familiar. Only when they rounded a corner did she see the modest Chantry atop the hill. Haven. She was back in Haven. And that cabin? Had it been the one she’d stayed in with her parents? Maker, she’d have to double check. Tears threatened to fall. She wiped them away angrily.

“That’s the Herald,” someone hissed, pointing.

“I thought she was supposed to close the breach! It’s still there!”

“She’s done more than you have.”

Grace retreated into her coat, pulling up her hood. As they approached, people stopped and stared. Some whispered to each other. Some weren’t so quiet. “The Herald of Andraste!” One called before falling to his knees in the wet snow. Grace jerked out of his way and wished Solas would walk faster. They were clearly headed for the Chantry, so, driven by a need to get away from these people, Grace picked up her pace, resisting the urge to run.

Incense wafted under her nostrils as she pushed the door open. Warm air, almost cloying, but a wonderful contrast to the cool of outside. Grace relaxed. Wherever she went in the world, no matter how foreign, the Chantry remained stable, permanent. The incense might change from chantry to chantry, the hangings on the walls, the design of the buildings themselves even, but the chantry as institution stayed the same from town to town. Grace could feel safe here.

As she walked the length of the nave, raised voices came from behind a door at the very end. She recognised them as she got closer. Cassandra, and that chancellor from the outpost. Grace clenched her teeth and turned right back around, ignoring Solas as she walked back down the nave. She’d walk right out and not stop until she reached Ostwick.

“Ah, you’re awake. Please, join us.”

Bugger. She turned, slowly, to see Leliana smiling at her from under that hood. Where had she come from? The shadows?

“Don’t worry about Roderick. He’s all bluster. But we do need to talk with you, my lady, and introduce you to some of our allies.”

Grace found herself following Leliana, her feet moving against her wishes, carrying her closer to the yelling and further away from escape. Leliana opened the door and ushered Grace inside while Solas stayed outside. The door closed behind her. No windows in this room. Just a huge table and thick stone walls.

“She can’t be trusted,” Roderick yelled. “She must go to Val Royeaux to face execution. She--” Roderick glared at the new comers. Grace’s insides turned to liquid. “Arrest her! Take her away!” He pointed a finger at Grace.

She looked around for support, only to find Leliana had hidden her face under her hood and Cassandra glaring at her as well.

“We need her,” Cassandra said. “She’s our only hope. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Oh. No. No no no. Before Grace could reply, Roderick scoffed. “Sent by the Maker indeed. She caused all this!”

“No.” Cassandra said. She was really quite good at dismissing people. Maybe Grace could learn a thing or two from her. “We still do not understand what caused the explosion at the Temple. But this was begun long before that. The Herald,” she indicated Grace, “is who we need to stop this madness.”

“How? Without our Divine, without someone leading the Chantry, we have no one!” Roderick said.

Cassandra stared at Roderick for a moment before turning to the side and picking up a huge tome. She slammed it on the table. Grace gave a little jump but no one seemed to notice. Thank the Maker for small miracles.

“You know what this is Chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.” As she spoke, Cassandra marched forward, forcing Roderick back. Leliana opened the door while Cassandra continued, Roderick having no choice but to step right out into the nave. She really was a sight to behold. She slammed the door in his face and returned to the table. Her shoulders sagged a moment before straightening. She stared directly at Grace.

“Our work starts now. _Your_ work starts now,” she said.

“Okay,” Grace replied. The sooner she agreed to whatever they wanted, the sooner she could go home.

Cassandra glanced at Leliana before smiling at Grace. She extended her hand. Grace shook it, felt the power in that palm.

“Excellent. There are people you need to meet. Come, we shall introduce you.” Leliana led Grace out and down the hall before she could protest. Her day was far from over and now it looked like home was even more far away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the Hinterlands!

The Chargers trudged through ankle-deep snow--knee deep in the case of Rocky.

“Should’ve let me blow a tunnel through,” he said for the thousandth time.

“Or at least get some horses,” Stitches said. “Surely we have the coin for horses.”

“You know anything about horses?” Bull asked. “Or how much they cost? You lot would eat them before we even got halfway through.”

“It is true,” Skinner said. “Horse flesh is tender.”

Bull didn’t laugh. Skinner wasn’t kidding. Horse did taste damn good, and the way she fondled her daggers told him that if one happened to break out of the forest, it’d be flayed in two seconds flat.

“Why are we going to Ferelden anyway? Ever been there? The weather’s crap. So’s the pay. They’re tighter than a Sister’s ass. Orlais’ where it’s at,” Rocky said, struggling to pull his leg out from the snow.

“Redheads!” Bull bellowed, slapping Rocky on the back, sending him face-first into the snow.

Once they’d set up camp for the night and had taken up watch stations or gone to bed, Krem got right to the point.

“Why Ferelden?” he asked. “And don’t say ‘redheads’.”

Bull gave his lieutenant a sideways glance, extended it round the camp. Content that they were alone enough, he said, “Two reasons: orders, Inquisition, Vints.”

“That’s three reasons, dumbarse.”

“Okay then Ser Genius. Three reasons. Orders, Inquisition, Vints, intelligence gathering.”

Krem didn’t take the bait. “Intel for who? The Chargers or the qunari?”

“Both.”

“Any idea how Fereldens will react to a qunari merc?”

Bull grunted. “Don’t know. Word crosses the Waking Sea easier than it does the Frostbacks. That shit at Kirkwall will still be fresh in their minds. That’s why we’ve got to get ourselves in with this Inquisition.”

Krem poked the fire. “You said Vints, too.”

“Yeah. My report said some of the bastards are roaming the countryside. Know what your people want from this damp shitter of a place?”

“Not my people anymore, Chief.”

Bull growled, frustrated. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

*

Grace sighed as she eased herself into the bath. The water reached the rim once she settled down. Finally: peace and quiet. The last few days had been a mad rush of meeting new people, catching up on recent events and sudden history lessons. Now for the first time since leaving Ostwick--and how long ago was that?--Grace could sit back and just relax.

Candlelight cast the room golden, lavender oil in the water made her sleepy. In the corner of her room--and it was the room she had shared with her parents--stood her new bow, crafted especially for her. She’d have to come up with a name for it. This one was better weighted than the one Cassandra had found, but it was still not as good as Nathalia.

Tomorrow she’d be on the road again, in search of a Mother rumoured to be sympathetic to the cause, so Grace took the chance to just look after herself for an evening. She could almost pretend she was back home. At home Wiggles would be sitting on her clothes, purring loudly despite no one being close enough to stroke him. Boots would be in her bed, warming it up for her. Here in Haven, Grace had no cats, no friends. Though she had seen a few cats prowling the outskirts of the camp. She’d have to lay out some food and water, see if she couldn’t lure a couple in.

As Grace washed the grime from her skin, she tried not to think about home or how her life had changed irrevocably. Bloody Herald of Andraste. What a load of cobblers. At least, hopefully it was all cobblers. Being an actual Herald, how terrifying!  Grace flexed her hand, examining the scar that glowed green. Surely heralds didn’t end up with such marks. The old gods spoke to heralds, gave them messages. All Grace had was a mysterious scar that healed holes in the sky and a constantly aching arm. She slapped her hand down in the water. Old gods. Pah. Like they ever existed.

And if she was a Herald, weren’t people supposed to listen to her? Leliana had introduced Grace to her advisors and Grace supposed they did advise, though they had a funny way of doing so. ‘Ordering’ would be a better way of describing what had happened during their first meeting. Three of them: Leliana Nightingale, spymaster with the pretty boots; Cullen Rutherford, commander of the fledgling army; and Josephine Montilyet; ambassador. Plus Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker. Worst of all, none of them agreed with the other but they all argued so well that Grace didn’t know who to side with when they all turned to her to say, “What do you think?”

An Inquisition. Maker’s breath. Inquisitions were something Grace only learned about in passing. Something about Exalted Marches and chaos and order. But there was a book, one that Cassandra had thrown onto the table with a mighty crash, that set out all the rules and regulations. Maker, she better not have to read that thing…

Leliana had revealed herself to be quite adept at picking out information. She knew who to talk to, and how to talk to them, and, unlike Josephine, how to twist the knife to get the answer she wanted. Grace had made a note not to get on the wrong side of her. Or confide in her too much. Probably best if she avoided her altogether.

Josephine was delightful. An ambassador from Antiva, so far from home but so… at home here. Grace listened to her counsel with wide eyed wonder. The woman never stopped working, or so it seemed. She’d patiently answered all of Grace’s questions, even repeating herself when Grace hadn’t understood something. Best of all, she didn’t look down on her or give any indication that she was frustrated. Maybe she was just being nice. Diplomats had a way of putting on a mask. Grace thought better than to revisit every conversation they’d had and just go on face value. Josephine had the Inquisition’s best interests at heart, and that included Grace. Though her assertions that people were calling Grace the Herald of Andraste had Grace panicking. She was no Herald or saviour. She couldn’t remember how she got this blasted mark, but she was sure it had nothing to do with providence. And none of them seemed interested in quelling the rumour.

The leader of the armed forces, Cullen, he wasn’t as scary as Cassandra, but he still looked sour when Grace had gone to talk to him at the new training grounds. Maybe he’d just been busy at the time. He’d been barking instructions to the soldiers defending themselves from dummies. Grace had slipped away when he wasn’t looking. She’d found Solas up in a little house on the hill and had lost herself in his conversation for many an hour. Maybe he was lonely like Grace, for his smile never wavered, even when Grace said something stupid. He had a beautiful voice, too. Calming and soporific. When he spoke of the Fade, she almost wished she was a mage so she could visit it too.

One morning after breakfast, Cassandra introduced Grace to Harritt, the blacksmith and Armor smith. A bald old man with a long, ginger moustache that the Fereldens loved so much, and cauliflower ears. As grumpy as he seemed, he looked pleased when Grace stepped out of his hut in her new armour.

“Looks like a good fit.” He grunted, his arms folded.

Grace had to agree. The leather folded around her like she’d been wearing it forever. Loops and buckles in all the right places for her new bow and quiver, daggers, and purses. She even had new boots, complete with hidden sheaths on either side of the calf for a couple of extra knives. She eyed both her old and new pairs from the bath. She knew better than to wear new boots on a long trip, but they had to be broken in at some point. She made a note to pack extra poultices to help with the inevitable blisters.

Solas and Varric would join Grace and Cassandra during their adventure in the wilderness. Having all three by her side was a relief. And maybe while they were on the road she’d be able to wheedle some stories out of Varric. Hopefully those two would be able to keep her from upsetting Cassandra even more. She said she believed in Grace, but she had a funny way of showing it. Maybe she was scared, more scared than Grace, because she had a better grasp on this unknown threat. Hopefully she’d do the talking once they’d found this Mother Giselle Leliana had suggested they get on side. Cassandra was good at talking. No, she was good at yelling...

All that was tomorrow though. Until then, Grace could just relax and let the water wash over her.

*

Bloody forests with their bloody bears and their bloody wolves. Grace wasn’t sure what upset her more: that these animals pursued the group with such rabid determination, or that the carcases were just left there to rot. Such a waste of meat. And fur. And leather. But this wasn’t a hunting trip with Bassy or Father. This was a mission and as such, there were only so many resources that could fit into their packs. Maybe once they had horses they’d be able to make use of these unfortunate animals.

Today had been too long, traipsing through the forest. The group had stumbled into an Inquisition camp, weary and hungry, to find food and fire had already been set up. The lead scout, a dwarf, Harding, her name was, introduced herself to Grace when they’d arrived but Grace wasn’t really paying attention. She was too distracted by the plaits in Harding’s hair, the freckles over her nose. Talk of a nearby horse master passed over her, as did the map reading.

Now, full of food and quite tired, Grace poked the fire with a stick she could barely hold. Her body ached, oh how it ached. Her left wrist hurt from holding her bow, her right shoulder panged from reaching behind to her quiver. Her thighs burned, but by some miracle of the Maker, her feet felt fine. She should thank Harritt for knowing his craft so well. Her tent beckoned but before she could make the effort to stand, Varric came over and sat himself down next to Grace.

“All this walking really takes it out of you, right?” he said, all happy, like his short legs hadn’t taken twice as many steps as everyone else’s.

Grace gave a weak smile.

Varric stretched his legs out, warming his toes by the fire. “Sure tires you out. Especially when you’re as short as me and our Seeker has legs that go forever.” Varric added a whistle at the end. Grace couldn’t help but laugh. She followed his gaze as he looked around the camp. They had the place to themselves, Solas and Cassandra out of sight. Perhaps they’d retired already.

Varric directed his attention back to Grace. “So, now that we’re out of earshot of Cassandra, how are you holding up? You’ve gone from most wanted person to Thedas to the Herald of Andraste. Most people would’ve spread that out over more than a week.”

Grace shrugged, drawing her legs up to hug her knees. “I have no idea what is happening.”

Varric smiled. “I know exactly how you feel.”

That was nice of him to say, though she doubted he could know the fear and loneliness that gnawed at her. Surrounded by people she didn’t know, people who’d hunted her, locked her up, then freed her. People who cared for her, but only because she had this power that no one could fathom. Tears welled in her eyes and a lump formed in her throat.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” she said, cutting Varric off. She hadn’t even realised Varric had been still been talking to her until her abrupt exit. How embarrassing. She crawled into her tent and pulled the furs over her head, biting down on her fist to stifle the sobs that escaped.

*

Varric stared at the tent that Grace had crawled into. He couldn’t help drawing comparisons to Hawke. Neither of them had set out to conquer the world, both victims of circumstance. But that’s where their similarities ended. Where Hawke huffed and dipped her arrows in poison, Grace whimpered and shrank back. Hawke got angry, Grace got scared. Hawke led, Grace followed.

Now, Anders, there was someone Varric thought would be good to have around. Funny that, after what that crazy mage had done to Kirkwall. Varric never thought he’d hear himself say, ‘you know what I need in my life? An apostate.’ Sure, Solas was an apostate, and a nice guy too. Bit of a dreamer, but mages often were. No, the reason Varric wanted Anders was not for his own entertainment. Back in Haven he’d seen Grace squatting with her hand out, making kissy noises at a wood stack. Strange, but he understood immediately when a little cat crept out. It had darted away as soon as Grace had tried to pet it, but she didn’t look disappointed. She looked determined. The bowls of water and chopped up meat he spotted her laying out around the side of the Chantry before they’d set out confirmed his suspicions that she was a little crazy for cats. Or company. Probably both. A bit like Anders.

Varric sighed. How he’d tell this story was anyone’s guess.

*

Sleep worked its restorative power on Grace. A twinge in her shoulder worked loose after a few stretches. Even better, she was only mildly pensive about the day ahead. Tea and bread filled her stomach as she listened to Cassandra describe the path they’d take to get to the Crossroads and Mother Giselle. The scouts had seen her there, working amongst refugees caught between raging factions of mages and templars. They’d have to fight their way in.

Grace’s thighs protested as she pulled her boots on but once the group got moving, the ache dulled and Grace found her stride. Only it came to a stuttering halt.

Cassandra stopped first. The other three followed her stare down the hill to where a group of people were fighting.

“Apostates,” she hissed.

“Templars, too,” Solas said.

“Why are they fighting?” Grace asked, then immediately regretted it when Cassandra turned on Grace with her best scowl.

“They will need to be eliminated if we are to make our way to Mother Giselle. Solas, you neutralise any magic those mages may be using. Varric and Lady Trevelyan, be as annoying as you can. I’ll keep the biggest of them away from you.”

Varric reached back and hauled Bianca over his shoulder, letting her rest easy in his hands. “Be annoying? You’ve got it.”

“Wait. Are we killing these people?” Grace asked.

“Yes,” Cassandra replied.

Grace looked to Solas and Varric for support but neither of them looked at all troubled. “We can’t just kill people! They have mothers and fathers. They might have children, or be someone’s brother or sister. We can’t just… we can’t!”

Cassandra started forward but Varric put his hand out, stopping her.

“Let me handle this, Seeker.” He turned to Grace. He didn’t look angry, more amused. “We’re fighting a war here, Kitten. I know it’s not something you want to be a part of, I get that. But a war this is, and in war, people die.” He pointed to the group at the bottom of the hill. “If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us. And trust me, I don’t want to be dead.”

Solas stepped up and rested his hand on Grace’s shoulder. “He’s right. There are many who want _you_ dead, Lady Herald. There are many who will die to make sure you stay alive.”

Grace’s heart beat too hard in her chest as her emotions played out their own war. In her mind’s eye she saw the first goat she’d shot. Six years old she’d been. In a clearing with Father at her back, guiding her as she lined up her shot. She’d drawn the string right back, ready to loose an arrow when the goat looked up and directly at her. Big yellow eyes stared right through her. Not that goat eyes could ever be described as soulful, but this goat’s baleful gaze at young Grace had her arm wobble.

“Breathe, Grace. In and up, out and down. You’ve got it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. The goat would not be wasted. They would eat the meat, wear the fur, carve the horns. That’s what goats were for. She opened her eyes, followed Father’s instructions, and let the arrow go.

The goat fell, silent, and Grace dropped her bow. Tears welled and her father clapped her on the back.

“Well done, Little One! That was perfect. We’ll make a hunter of you yet.” Her Father’s pride went a small way to easing young Grace’s guilt.

“We have wasted enough time already. Come on.” Cassandra said. She didn’t wait for Grace’s panic to take hold, just adjusted her shield and sword and stalked down the hill.

“Just stick with me and Bianca and you’ll be fine.” Varric smiled.

“But what if someone shoots me?”

He grinned and waved Bianca in the air. “Then shoot back.”

Grace took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Right. Okay. She could do this. She followed Varric down the path. Cassandra and Solas had already waded into the fight and it took a moment for Grace to pick out Cassandra’s shield in the middle of a knot of people.

“Take that, you bastards!”

Grace snapped her attention to Varric. He fired bolt after bolt into the fray. He was having way too much fun, like he had with the demons at the Temple. After another moment’s hesitation, Grace nocked an arrow and lined up a shot. A mage stood back from the group, conjuring a spell. Grace let her breathing take over as she aimed, picturing that goat instead of a person. The arrow left the bow, travelling in a perfect arc all the way over to the mage. He doubled over, his spell interrupted and Grace fired again. And again and again until he lay on the ground, arrows sticking out of him like pins in a pin cushion.

“Hey, easy there Kitten. Fight’s over. And he’s well and truly dead.” Varric’s voice pulled Grace out of her wild trance. Her heart thudded and she breathed hard. She looked around. He was right. Only four people were left standing. Her, Varric, Solas, and Cassandra amidst a sea of bodies.

Grace dropped her bow and stumbled over to the mage she’d killed. She fell to her knees before him, unsure where to put her hands, unsure if she should pull the arrows out or leave them there. He stared at the sky with vacant eyes. She should close them. Her hand hovered over his face but she couldn’t bring herself to touch him. She felt nothing. Not sadness or guilt. Neither did tears come, like she thought they would. Just numbness.

Solas knelt beside her, took her hand in his. He uttered an elven prayer and closed the man’s eyes. She looked at Solas, saw deep sadness etched on that smooth face.

“It will get easier. Trust me.”

Grace nodded, let him help her up. She didn’t believe him. How could she?

*

Cassandra found herself questioning her faith--again. She did not know how the Maker worked, nor what his plans were. She did not know why he chose that girl, of all people, or even if he did choose her. She thought again that maybe this was all a cruel joke of his. Or Andraste’s. This course of events had her name written all over it. But Cassandra had had her faith and patience tested before, and she did not falter then. Nor would she now. Not with so much at stake.

However, faith could only carry her so far. For the rest, she used her feet. And her sword. They’d had to fight their way into the village of the Crossroads, and even then the people scampered and ran. Fools. They’d just been saved.

No Chantry here. Too small. So how a Mother had found herself working here was a mystery to Cassandra. Leliana would know. Leliana knew more than she cared to share. Cassandra asked those villagers who had not fled where Mother Giselle could be found. All directed her towards a ruined building at the base of a cliff. A make-shift healing post, one had said.

The group rounded the crumbling stones and the Mother looked up at the group’s arrival, heartbroken, overworked, shoulders drooped. She welcomed the group with a soft, kind Orlesian accent. For a Mother to be surrounded by this chaos, this fighting, the white of her robes stained with blood and mud--this is what Cassandra fought for. People like Mother Giselle, helping those who could not help themselves.

Lady Trevelyan stood mute in front of Mother Gisele, smiling like a dolt. Did she expect Cassandra to do all the speaking? Maker only knew how bad at that she was.

Mother Giselle turned to the Herald. “You are troubled by this conflict. We all are. We seldom have much say in our fate. But the Maker has sent you to us in our darkest hour.”

Grace just nodded and looked to Cassandra.

“We are without support from the Chantry, Mother. We face a threat unknown. We are to fix it. But all we receive is blame.” Cassandra couldn't keep the frustration from her voice.

Mother Gisele inclined her head to side and Cassandra saw strength behind that soft facade. “Go to Val Royeaux,” Mother Giselle said. She turned to Grace. “Not all the clerics are against you. Convince them that you are not something to be feared.”

“Come with us,” Grace blurted out. So now she found her voice.

Cassandra huffed but Mother Gisele merely smiled, so warm and full of compassion. “I will gladly join your cause. I will travel with you as far as Haven, and provide what support I can from there. The rest is up to you, dear Herald.”

Grace nodded dumbly, leaving Cassandra to say, “Thank you.” Then, “We will stay here at the Crossroads for tonight at least. Mother Gisele, you and the villagers will be able to tell us what life is like here, and how we may help.”

Then she marched towards the Inn. A bath would be too much, she supposed. Never mind. Food would do.

*

Hard to keep paper dry and crinkles free--not to mention in order--when travelling like this. Books took up too much room in the pack. As much as it pained him to say so, he needed that space for food and gear, not leisurely pastimes. He’d finished reading the one book he had packed and was now at the mercy of the crap they kept in this village. Fortunately, the door next to Varric’s swung open and slammed, followed by stomping down the hall. He leapt up, grabbed Bianca and slammed his own door behind him.

“Seeker, wait for me!”

Cassandra was halfway down the stairs already. She didn’t pause, just kept at her striding until they’d left the inn and were out on the road. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. Ah, but she had. With her hands on her hips, she turned, scowling at him with disdain he knew so well.

“Go away, Varric.”

“I don’t think so. Think of me as your sidekick. Partners in crime...solving,” he added as her eyebrows became angrier. “You’re the serious one and I’m the wise-cracking one. Trust me. We’ll get more information as a duo than you and your stabby daggers will on their own. So. Where’re going?”

They fell into step, joining the cobbled King’s Highway as it went through the Crossroads from east to west.

“We fought templars,” she said. “Why did we fight Templars? We should not have been fighting them. Mages, I can believe, especially around here. But Templars?” She appeared to be talking to herself, given how incredulous she sounded. True, Varric hadn’t expected to see so many Templars out for blood. It was the mages, after all, who’d torn down the Circles. Surely they would’ve stayed around whatever was left of the Circles. Or, maybe, like the mages, they’d gone mad with freedom and power. Wouldn’t be the first time. Best not say that to Cassandra just now though.

“Maybe their Circles had sent them to round up mages. They’ve got the mages’ phylacteries after all,” he offered.

“No. That’s not it.”

Cassandra said no more on the matter and Varric didn’t have the breath to think aloud. He had to do an ungainly skip-jog just to keep up with her. She took a sharp left off the road and wound her way up a damn hill. Varric dropped back, stopped to catch his breath. After pulling in a few deep breaths and wiping his brow with his shirt, he trudged the rest of the way up the hill to find Cassandra deep in conversation with a soldier in the livery of Ferelden’s monarchy. He’d walked into a conversation filled with incredulity and frustration.

“What do you mean? Why were they called to Therinfal Redoubt? The Seekers abandoned it an age ago. This makes no sense!” Cassandra paced and scowled.

“Don’t know, Seeker. Just that all Templars in Ferelden have been ordered there. Came from the most high, the Lord Seeker himself. Those bastards out there, the ones you wandered through with your swords, they ignored the order. They’re rogue, just like the apostates. And now they fight each other. Poor bastards.” He looked out over the land, gaze settling in the middle distance. “Probably never been outside the Circle’s walls before, let alone a city, and now they’re having to feed and clothe themselves. Can’t be easy. But they’re mad on power, both lots, and they’re hurting innocent people.” He turned to Cassandra. “What is your Inquisition going to do about that, hmm?”

“We will stop them,” Cassandra said through gritted teeth.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Why don’t you help us out?” Varric said. He shrugged when Cassandra glared at him. “You know where the templars and mages are camping? We’ll clear them out. Together.” He patted Bianca for emphasis.

The soldier paused for a moment before saying, “Yeah, okay. I’ll lend you some men and point you in the direction of the templars. Can’t help with the mages. They’re not coordinated like the templars. Just like chickens running around without their heads. But if you do find some alive, tell them to find their senses and join the others at Redcliffe. Better there than out here.”

Cassandra and the soldier swapped information, tying down loose ends and making plans. Varric fidgeted, anxious to ask questions, but managing to stay quiet. Only when they’d made level ground again did Varric pipe up.

“See? The old good guy-bad guy routine worked.”

Cassandra huffed.

*

Grace suspected the inn was full of fleas if the way her back itched was any indication, though she hadn’t taken off any of her clothes, not even her cloak. She reached around and scratched again, half listening as Cassandra explained the results of her exploration to the group gathered in the women’s room.

Something about the templars they’d fought earlier in the day, and the mages. Grace couldn’t think about that without feeling sick all over again.

“There are a large number of mages at Redcliffe. From what I understand, they are not hostile and are there under the good graces of Queen Anora. They are without their Circles and they want to be safe. For whatever reason, Redcliff has granted them refuge. We shall leave them be for the moment,” Cassandra explained. “These rogue templars and mages are more of a worry.”

Grace’s thoughts wandered to the two men she’d met on her way to Haven. Felt like a lifetime ago now. Maybe they’d gone on from Haven, made their way to Redcliffe and were safe.

She missed the plan made for tomorrow, only realising that the meeting had come to a close when Solas and Varric got out of their chairs and headed for the door. Never mind. She’d catch Solas later and ask then.

“Getting dinner with us, Kitten?” Varric called.

Grace looked to Cassandra, who nodded. She scrambled off the bed and followed, leaving Cassandra to lock up.

Downstairs was no better than upstairs. The common room was cold--all the heat from the fire seemed to be going straight up the chimney. At least, it did when the wind didn’t blow through the cracks in the walls and send puffs of smoke across the room. The bench Grace sat on wobbled, and wobbled again when Solas sat down. The bowls of stew that had been dumped in front of them by a surly serving boy didn’t look fit for pigs. Grace poked at a lump of something with her fork. Maker, she’d much rather be camping than here in this itchy, angry village. She glanced at Solas. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the meal any more than Grace. She nudged his shoulder with her own.

“Do you think it’s edible?” she whispered.

Solas poked his tongue out and Grace giggled. “I have some apples in my bag,” she said. “We can eat them later, if you want. And there’s a pear tree on the road back to Haven. Maybe even a plum. I didn’t get a good look at the fruit. We shan’t go hungry.”

Solas smiled that kind smile. “You are a resourceful woman, and holding up better than most in your position, I should think.”

Grace blushed under the praise. Then, sensing her moment, she looked around, spotting both Cassandra and Varric at the bar. “What is happening tomorrow?” she asked. “I wasn’t paying attention before.”

Solas chuckled. “Cassandra wants to establish the Inquisition’s good reputation here. With some help from the local soldiers, we are to find the rogue Templars’ main camp. Some may be reasoned with. Others might be too far gone for help.”

“What do you mean?”

“You do not know? Templars draw their power from lyrium. Since the Circles fell, the Templars will have been without regular access to it. It is likely that those we encountered today had gone mad from withdrawal. I hope that not all those we seek tomorrow have weakened.”

Grace certainly had no appetite any more. She stared at her cooling stew, pushed the lump around again. Lyrium allowed Templars their powers to control magic. Of course, how stupid she had been. She’d not thought about it, not until now. The Ostwick Circle had gone the way of the others, only without the violence. The doors lay open for mages to come and go, and Templars were still being recruited. Sebastian… he would be a templar, and he’d be taking lyrium. Would he be okay? Would he go mad like the others? She had to get a letter to him, and soon.

The scraping and dragging of benches across the floor drew Grace’s attention, and a pair of deep brown eyes staring back at her stopped all her thoughts completely.

Her black hair had been shorn close to her scalp and her skin was dark. Not as dark as those eyes though. Her cheekbones looked like they’d been carved from stone. Grace’s heart stopped.

“Lady Trevelyan?” Cassandra said.

“Sorry?” Grace’s heart started again with a thunk-thunk as she tore herself away from the woman opposite.

“This is Horse Master Dennet and his daughter, Seanna.”

“Seanna.” Grace repeated.

“Not much of a conversationalist, I take it.”

Grace turned to Dennett and apologised for being so rude. “We’ve had a very long day and there were templars and mages and bears and wolves and this stew, I don’t think there’s any--”

“I believe the Herald is trying to say hello, isn’t that right, Lady Herald.” Cassandra scowled.

“Oh, right. Yes. Hello!” She stumbled over herself to stand up and shake the two hands proffered over the table. Dennett's hand engulfed hers, firm and perfunctory. Seanna’s was no less firm, but smaller. Not soft, either. Callused. She held on for longer than necessary but dare not met Seanna’s eyes.

While Dennett explained what he was doing here, Grace kept a smile fixed in place as she looked between Dennett, Cassandra, and Seanna. Seanna met her gaze every time and seemed on the verge of laughing.

“I wanted to meet you for myself,” Dennett said. Word travels fast round these parts, despite the distance. You’re taking Mother Gisele away, I hear? Can’t say I’ll miss her, but I suppose she did do some good at keeping the peace.”

“Father, really.” Seanna said. Oh, her voice. So sweet, even as she chastised her father.

Cassandra wasted no time in making her request.

Dennett scratched his beard. “Horses eh? Can’t say I blame you. You’ve come from Haven, yes? Hardly a healthy place for horses. Have they got enough straw that far up the mountains? Got good stables and hands?”

“Perhaps you could help us, since you know so much.” Cassandra seemed to be doing her best to remain patient, but the way she spoke through gritted teeth wasn’t lost on Grace.

“I could help, I suppose. Though not with the roads the way they are. Those templars and mages would sooner have the horses, not to mention the wolves. You make the place safe for horses, and then we’ll talk again.”

“We’re going to kill the Templars!” Grace blurted out. She shrank back down when she realised just how loud she’d been. Seanna did laugh this time. Short, but wonderful. Dennett gave her a look like she was one horseshoe short of a full set.

“We will clear the roads so travel will be safe again.” Cassandra said, coming to Grace’s rescue.

The group was silent a moment, then Dennett huffed and stood.

“Come, Seanna. Best we leave now so we’re not riding in the dark.”

Grace’s heart sank at the prospect of Seanna leaving so soon. But leave she did; not without a wave and a wink though.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition needs horses!

With Cassandra and Lady Trevelyan out drumming up support, Cullen remained busy at Haven. News of the Inquisition’s formation had spread fast--thanks in part to Josephine’s missives and Leliana’s ravens. New recruits filed in every day wanting to sign up and fight. Farm hands came up from the Hinterlands with nothing but the clothes on their backs; mercenaries and deserted soldiers from the Ferelden and Orlesian armies. The soldiers knew how to hold a sword. The farmers, not so much. Some were no older than boys. No older than Cullen had been when he’d joined the templars.

He organised a system quickly, assessing the skills of those who came in, assigning them units and tents. He tried to be on hand to greet them before his second in command whisked them away. Some were angry and would need special attention. Others were lost and would need looking after too.

One morning, a pair of templars turned up in full armour. They looked like they’d trudged the whole way but their steel gleamed and their swords were sharp. The man near collapsed and only the swift reaction of the woman with him kept him upright.

“Please,” he said. “We need lyrium.”

A pang shot through Cullen’s veins, an itch he so wished to scratch. He ushered them to the makeshift HQ. They collapsed into chairs, not bothering to remove their armour or weapons. He handed them water and sat next to them.

“Where have you come from? What are your names?”

As the man gulped down the water, the woman spoke. “Wes and Brea. We came from Jainen. The mages revolted. They tore down the circle walls. So much violence. We ran while we still could. We went back home, to Denerim. Other templars were there, too. A messenger came, said he was from Lord Seeker Lucius. We were ordered to go to Therinfal Redoubt. Most of the others did, but we didn’t want to. We broke away from them in the night and came here.”

“Why did you not follow orders?” And why were the templars called to Therinfal, of all places, by the Lord Seeker?

“Something about the message didn’t sit right with us,” Brea said. “When we heard about the Inquisition and how you’re going to fix the hole in the sky and fix the war, we swore to each other that we would rather join your cause than face the unknown.”

“We can still leave, if we want,” Wes said. Cullen took that as a warning.

“We will be glad to have you,” Cullen replied. “We need templars and mages both to help seal the breach. You can have lyrium, too, but as part of the Inquisition, you must follow our orders.” Cullen dipped out of the tent to grab the lyrium equipment. His hands trembled as he returned, knowing how easily he could take some for himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he passed the box over to grateful thank yous.

“You’re a templar, too, yes?” Wes asked.

“Not anymore,” Cullen said with more anger than necessary. “Luri’s my second. He will take you under his wing. You follow his orders and all will fine.” He turned to leave but paused, frowning. He looked over his shoulder. “Welcome to Haven,” he added, before leaving.

*

On top of the hill, in the chantry, Josephine patiently waited for the Marquis DuRellion to finish his rant. Leliana sat in the corner, hood over her eyes, one leg over the other, and picked at her fingernails with a knife. She really shouldn’t do that; it only struck fear or anger into those subjected to it and did nothing to sway the argument Josephine’s way. Josephine could strike fear into the hearts of men as well. She just went about it in a more… diplomatic fashion.

“Do you really think Queen Anora will take your claim seriously,” she asked once DuRellion had concluded his pompous speech.

“She must! She is the Queen!”

“And you will travel to Denerim to petition her yourself, no? All the way across Ferelden? Ferelden, filled with apostates and bandits? Your carriage will not make it to Redcliffe.”

“Then I will send a messenger in my stead. Haven belongs to my family. Your Inquisition has no right to be here.”

“How long has your family lived here, exactly? Where is your home? I do not recall seeing you at any of the conclave’s meetings before its unfortunate end.”

He faltered. “Well, we don’t have a house exactly.”

“Where are you staying now?”

“Just at the tavern. But I shall acquire a home soon, for this is, of course, _my_ village.”

Josephine kept a straight face but inwardly she groaned. Just like a noble to claim an entire village. Unfortunately, he wasn’t incorrect.

Leliana adjusted her chair, drawing the attention of both DuRellion and Josephine. “It would be unfortunate if something were to happen to that contract, would it not?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not you, Marquis. Make your petition if you must. And if you wish to try and evict an entire village of people who have lived here for generations, then please, be my guest.”

DuRellion shifted, glaring at both Josephine and Leliana. “You haven’t heard the last of this.” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Josephine let out the sigh she’d been holding on to, and sighed again when Leliana rested her hand on Josie’s shoulder.

“Orlesians,” they said simultaneously.

“We must get used to them. And the other noble houses. They are the ones who will make us. Or break us.” Josephine spoke as much to remind herself as Leliana.

Leliana agreed. “More flock to our banner every day. Cullen had two more templars at first light this morning, and we had mages, too, come to find safety. While the nobles provide gold, the refugees and farmers will give us numbers that cannot be argued with.”

Josephine sat back at her desk and started rifling through the papers. So much to do. So many people to petition!

“Josie, please, get some rest.”

She gave Leliana a tight smile. “I will, I assure you. Just as soon as I have finished these letters.” She caught Leliana shaking her head as she left.

The paper on top of the pile caught her eye. A raven from Cassandra. Mother Giselle and a small number of templars were coming to Haven under the Inquisition banner. Negotiations with the horse master were going well. The Herald hadn’t embarrassed the Inquisition too much and had managed to close more rifts. They would return in a week.

Josephine sighed with relief. While she’d have to prepare quarters for the newcomers and see that food supplies were adequate, she could at least be content that Cassandra was holding the fort out in the wilderness.

*

Grace stood behind the stables, staring at the skins pinned to the boards without really looking at them. Never in her life had she experienced this level of exhaustion. The endless walking and talking and looking out for rogue mages, templars, and the occasional rift, her group then had to deal with possessed wolves. If a demon could control mages the way it had controlled those wolves, then no wonder mages were considered to be so dangerous. At least she’d been given the time to skin the wolves they’d slaughtered. The furs would go a ways to keeping Grace warm at night. The refugees too, though Grace was loathe to let any of them at the Crossroads have any. She’d take them to Haven where the people were nicer.

“Lady Herald, there you are.”

Grace jumped at the voice she’d swiftly come to enjoy. She turned and smiled, a burst of energy straightening her up. “Seanna! Please, call me Grace.”

Seanna held out an apple. “First of the season.”

Grace took it with thanks and they walked around to the front of the stables, taking a seat on a barrel. It wasn’t large, so they had to squish up, hip to hip. Grace sighed, all warm, happy for the first time in days. The sun helped, and the fresh straw in the stables made her feel almost at home. She bit into the apple, her arm rubbing against Seanna’s.

“Thank you for dealing with the wolves,” Seanna said. “They started getting so close I was worried I’d have to sleep out in the stables to protect the horses. I heard what happened. At least their deaths weren’t in vain. They will feed the hungry, and clothe the cold. That’s the best we can hope for in times like these.”

Grace nodded. She’d never killed a wolf before. Never hunted for protection. Only sport. Then again, she’d never killed a person until a few days ago.

“And you got rid of the templars, too?”

Grace nodded again, but her eyes welled up. They’d been crazed, most of them, not listening to Cassandra’s call for surrender. They’d waved their swords without thought or skill at anyone not in silver armour. They were wild, more wild than the wolves had been. In the end only four had surrendered. Grace saw them up close as they filed passed with their escort. Hollow eyes, gaunt cheeks. Their armour hung off them. They barely looked human.

Tears fell and Grace raced to wipe them before Seanna noticed. Too late. She found herself pulled into a hug, Seanna’s arm tight around her shoulder, her other hand stroking Grace’s messy, knotted hair.

“There there,” she said. That just made Grace cry even more. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. You’ve helped out so much already. Father will send the horses, I’m sure of it. I have just the one for you. Do you want to see her?”

Grace mumbled against Seanna’s shoulder but couldn’t tear herself away. Not yet. She realised with a pang that she’d not hugged anyone, not truly, since she’d arrived in Haven with her parents. That thought sparked off another round of wailing. Grace clung to Seanna, and Seanna held her, rocking her backward and forwards, shushing her like a spooked horse.

The sun was low in the sky by the time they pulled apart and from the other side of the farm, Cassandra called Grace in for dinner.

“She’s nice, but not as nice as Mother,” Grace said, sniffling.

Seanna smiled and led Grace back to the house, holding her hand the whole way.

*

In the morning Seanna introduced Grace to her new horse: a chestnut mare, the same colour as Grace’s hair, with a white stripe down its nose. She whinnied when Grace approached but stayed calm when Grace jumped up. She’d not ridden for a long time but her lessons came back to her soon enough. Together they went for a short walk around the yard, getting used to each other.

“She’s wonderful!” Grace said to Seanna. “What’s her name?”

“Faith.”

Oh. _Oh_. Grace patted Faith. “You’re a good girl,” she whispered.

“Grace and Faith! That’s perfect!” Varric said. “So who do I get to ride?”

Seanna laughed and pointed to an elderly donkey. It had gone completely grey and had teeth as yellow as hay. Varric looked too shocked to complain. He even made a circuit of the yard--albeit very slowly--in silence. Only when he’d gotten back to the start did Seanna break out laughing.

“I wouldn’t be that cruel,” she said. She dipped back into the stables and returned with a stout, strong gelding. “Brick, meet Varric. Varric, Brick.”

Varric all but fell off the donkey in his haste to get to his new horse. Took him a couple of attempts to mount him but when he did, he grinned. “This is more like it!”

Cassandra and Solas were also given horses. Cassandra’s was a shade darker than Grace’s, and bigger. Much bigger. More like a war horse. Cassandra sat up there looking most uncomfortable and the horse didn’t look best pleased either. Solas’ rode a gentle white mare. Together they looked like they’d ridden out of the pages of a fairy tale.

Dennett stood next to Seanna and watched on, arms crossed. He grunted. “They’ll do you nicely. I’ll bring the rest to Haven.”

Cassandra caught Grace’s attention. They grinned. Finally, the Inquisition was getting somewhere.

*

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of activity. Dennett extended his hospitality, which Grace was most grateful for, and not just because of the clean bed. Seanna sat beside her each evening as Varric told one of his stories. They laughed and gasped, and even Cassandra looked rapt. Solas kept to himself until Dennett’s farm hand Bron brought out a chess board.

During the days the group did what they could for the farmers and the Inquisition. Solas sensed another rift, which took half a day to get to. They heard strange rumours about Redcliffe and the mages there. They never heard the same story twice but whatever was happening, it didn’t sound good. Grace was relieved that Cassandra didn’t suggest they go there. A raven went to Haven instead. “Leliana will have more information,” Cassandra explained.

They spent their last night in the Hinterlands in the Crossroads Inn again, much to Grace’s disappointment. But Dennett, Seanna, and Bron were there, singing the Inquisitions praises as much for the benefit of the villagers as anyone else. The inn keeper didn’t let the party go on for long. Once the sun had set, she’d told everyone to clear off and that candles were expensive.

She caught Seanna just before Seanna left.

“Will you come to Haven with Dennett?” she asked, not caring if she sounded desperate.

“I hope to. I’ve always wanted to travel. But I’m better at looking after the horses than Bron. Dennett will probably want me to stay here.”  
Grace’s heart fell. She kept her smile in place but it wasn’t enough to banish the tears that welled up so she pulled her in for a hug, holding on tight, inhaling as much of Seanna’s horsey scent as she could. In the distance, Dennett called. Seanna pulled away with a goodbye. The one friend she’d made since all this mess started and she was going away. Grace watched until Seanna and Dennett had ridden out of sight before climbing the stairs with heavy steps.

Cassandra startled when Grace entered. She was already in bed, in her night clothes, and Grace caught her dropping her book. Hiding it more like. Grace changed into her nightdress and flopped into bed, curling herself up and pulling the blanket over her shoulder. She watched Cassandra return to her book, her profile strong in the candlelight. Regal, as Mother would say.

“Mind you don’t burn that whole candle. We might get charged for it,” Grace said.

Cassandra laughed, giggly and barking all at once. Grace startled at the sound. Had she ever heard Cassandra laugh? Cassandra’s laughing made Grace laugh, and soon the two were giggling and snorting into their pillows, each doing their best impression of the inn keeper until a thumping from downstairs had them blowing out the candle and snuggling down.

*

As the group rode out of the Crossroads on their new horses, people stopped and stared. People dropped to their knees or called out to her.

“Herald of Andraste!”

“She’s provided us food and shelter!”

“She’s sent by the Maker!”

“No more templars can hurt us!”

Her jaw remained tight as Cassandra led the group through the village. Once they were around a corner and out of sight, Grace kicked Faith into a gallop and rode as hard as she could, glad to be free of that place, though she doubted she’d be away for long.

*


	6. Chapter 6

There was a time when Josephine had thought she’d love nothing more than to be out of the Grand Game, but when Leliana had approached her with the barest details of Divine Justinia’s plan, Josephine's heart had raced, the cogs in her brain whirring as she considered the contacts she could call on. Working with Leliana again certainly had appeal and while she hadn’t worked in tandem with a commander of an army before, well, she could learn. No one had anticipated the explosion at the Temple. Opposition, yes. Threats and protests, of course. But an outright explosion? The death of the Divine, the very person who sought to find a resolution to the mage-templar conflict? That was an act of terrorism! Or, it would be, if anyone had claimed responsibility. While many had benefited, none had yet come forward to admit anything. Unfortunately for Josephine, the explosion had thrown all of her carefully laid plans into chaos. Allies who had already pledged allegiance to the Divine’s plans distanced themselves at best, and condemned the Inquisition at worst. Picking up the pieces with a skeleton team had not been easy, but Josephine thrived on the challenge. She’d won back a lot of those allies who’d left with carefully worded letters, and in some cases, barely disguised bribery. She was in her element once again.

As much as she detested the Grand Game, knowing she’d trumped her opponent, seeing the realisation dawn behind the mask, that was pure satisfaction, even when it left her exhausted. Then there were the Free Marches and Ferelden. The Free Marches were often referred to as ‘quaint’ and ‘peculiar’--polite euphemisms for ‘stubborn’ and ‘frustrating’. Even worse, each city state had its own distinct flavour of peculiarity. Like this business with the Trevelyans. Maker, how was she going to bring up this little incident with Grace? Her head hurt to think about it even as she turned a dozen ideas over. Lord Kildarn was another headache that she’d just have to deal with. Blunt and no-nonsense, his complaints were the epitome of Ferelden politics. No need to get Grace’s opinion on him. She’d discuss that matter with Leliana and Cullen and let Grace know, just in case the matter came up with a visiting dignitary.

She’d read the Lord’s letter again as she walked the few steps from her office to the war room. She shivered and hoped the candle lighting her writing board would give off enough heat to stave off the ever present chill of Haven. Leliana and Cullen followed soon after and the trio exchanged polite greetings and nods. Leliana placed a marker on the map. One of the brass sunbursts, the eye of the Inquisition cast in the centre. Josephine sighed. Just like Leliana to deal with the trickiest problem first.

“Ostwick,” the three said in unison.

“This was bound to happen sooner or later,” Josephine said. “What do we know about this cousin?” She looked to Leliana.

“Christopher Trevelyan. Nineteen years old. Fifth cousin on her father’s side. He lives in Wycome, in the Free Marches and has weak ties to the Ostwick Trevelyans.”

“And now he has a voice,” Cullen said.

“We can silence that voice.” Leliana spoke with an ice to her voice that was unmistakable.

“There will be no need for that,” Josephine said, suppressing a shudder. “I propose we give the hint of future favours for Trevelyans who cooperate with the spirit of the Inquisition. We need not cause any more injury to young Grace’s name.”  
The others murmured their agreement and asked just what kind of favours Josephine had in mind. She placed her marker on the map, taking away the Inquisition one. As she did so, the door creaked open and in tiptoed the Herald. She closed the door behind her, using both hands to click the latch shut. She looked from Josephine to Cullen and Leliana, wary. Josephine took great interest in Lady Buttlefort’s letter about Christopher while Cullen cleared his throat with a nervous cough.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine started. “How close are you to the more distant members of your family?” Maker, the poor woman had just returned from an exhausting trip and here was Josephine interrogating her on the intricacies of her family.  
  
A little knot formed between the Heard’s brows as she thought. She answered almost hesitantly. “We Ostwick Trevelyans keep to ourselves. We’re not much liked by the wider family.”

“Yes, Seamus Trevelyan made himself quite unpopular, no?” Leliana smirked under her hood. Honestly. They had talked about Leliana's tone.

A flare of anger sparked on Grace’s face and died down just as quickly. “Please don’t speak about my father like that,” she whispered.

To Josephine’s surprise, Leliana apologised. Josephine tapped her quill against her board to draw attention back to the matter in hand. “I ask because we have had a matter come to our attention.” She passed Lady Buttlefort’s letter over. Grace read it over, her eyes pausing at each word. Leliana caught Josephine’s attention and rolled her eyes. Josephine chastised her with a glare. The Herald was frightened and out of her element, that was all. She could form thoughts and opinions on her own, given time. Unfortunately, time was not always on the Inquisition’s side.

With a measured tone, Josephine said, “We have considered on a course of action but think it prudent to run it past you first. You are, after all, a member of the family and know those involved a great deal better than we.” She would no doubt not hear the end of it from both Leliana and Cullen but family was family, no matter how distant, and the Herald deserved the chance to give input with such issues. Of course, Josephine had also insisted that the Herald be present at the war table meetings--and wasn’t that a loaded term--despite Cullen’s protests that she’d only be in the way, and Leliana’s hesitations that she might compromise the Inquisition by gossiping. But who would she gossip to? The only people she spoke to were deep in the Inquisition’s pockets already.

Grace smiled. “The cousin mentioned, Lord Cherry, we call him. His real name is Christopher but once when we were young, he ate all the cherries that had been set out for the summer ball and--well, I suppose you don’t need to know that. He doesn’t really know me.”

“I still say we send the threat of assassins,” Leliana said.

Grace stepped back, horrified, while Josephine and Cullen merely sighed.

“We can’t threaten everyone, Leliana. Anyway. Josephine’s idea is best,” Cullen said.

The Herald reached out to the map but drew her hand back.

“Lady Trevelyan, Grace, my idea is to mollify Lord Christopher and any others who may wish to take advantage of your name. We hint that his continued cooperation will result in future reward,. We do not need to say what that reward will be. Just the wind will be enough.” Josephine held her breath, already anticipating the Hearld’s objections.

“Okay.”

Josephine let out her breath and forced a smile. That was… easier than expected. She made a note on her page and pulled out the next letter. “Now, Lord Kildarn…”

*

Grace had barely sat down after returning from the Hinterlands before she was hauled into the war room by some messenger she didn’t know the name of and all for some talk about a cousin she’d not seen since childhood. Why couldn’t they be asking about Sebastian and what he wanted to do to help the Inquisition? Maker, he would help, too. Grace could’ve asked, but… well… they were all so intimidating. And so she felt overwhelmed, standing once again in the war room, helping to plan the next journey. Or more, watching others plan. Why they bothered having her there, she didn’t know. After cousin Cherry and some other noble had been dealt with, a runner sent for Cassandra and Mother Gisele. The group took up positions around the central table to hear the trip report from Cassandra herself. Both Varric and Solas were not needed, much to Grace’s envy.

Despite all the sconces on the walls and the candles on the table, the room leached cold. If they set a big fire in the middle of the chantry, that would warm the place right up. The massive stones would hold the heat for days. But Grace supposed Andraste wouldn’t approve of bonfires in her holy house. Pity. As it was, Grace stood bundled up in her new leathers, scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. She shrank into the wool the best she could. At least her toes were warm; bless the sheepskin Harritt had added to her boots.

Scout Harding and Leliana’s ravens meant those who’d stayed behind had much information already. Preparations were already underway to fix the stables for the incoming horses. They’d be next to the blacksmiths, outside Haven’s main wall. Grace hoped that might mean Seanna would be coming soon too, though she dare not get her hopes up.

Cassandra gave a short version of the rebel mages and templars they’d encountered. She didn’t mention Grace’s first victim, much to her relief. Neither Cullen nor Leliana were surprised to hear about the Templar orders to go to Therinfall. Templars had been seen on the mountain passes near Haven and the Inquisition had picked up a few doubters along the way, much to Cullen’s delight. The four of them chattered away, musing on what the templars were up to. Grace shifted her weight, wishing she was still with Solas, sitting in front of the fire in his hut, listening to him talk about the Fade. He made being a mage sound very exciting, though after all she’d heard about Circles, she was glad the mark on her hand had not bestowed her magical abilities beyond being able to close rifts. The way he described his dreams reminded her of the dreams she’d been having recently. They felt real, like dreams sometimes did, but they were fuzzy around the edges. And in those dreams there wasn’t a green hole in the sky, or a mark on her hand. She was just Grace.

Mother Gisele’s voice, as soft and quiet as it was, pulled Grace’s attention. The room had gone silent but for her. Everyone had to lean forward to hear her. She spoke calmly, without blame or disdain. Those who opposed peace and reason were considered unfortunate, or lost. She looked directly at Grace, and Grace felt like they were the only ones in the room.

“The Chantry’s authority has been challenged by the death of the Divine. They are lost and afraid and wish to have someone to blame. Go to Val Royeaux. Show the clerics that you are not a demon to be feared. Even if your Inquisition is no longer sanctioned by the Chantry, you will gather enough to your side to disrupt their unity.  With those voices, the Inquisition will become a force to be reckoned with.”

As soon as she had finished speaking, the spell was broken, and the arguments started up again.

“We can’t in good conscious send her into a trap.” Cullen said.

Leliana shook her head. “She must go. Without the mark as proof, and perhaps even a demonstration, our position will be weakened. If we can get enough voices in the Chantry to speak for us, then--”

“I will go with her,” Cassandra said. Then they descended into argument about who else should go. Josephine made her case, but Leliana shut her down, reasoning that with all those flocking to Haven already, she needed to be here.

Grace stood as an observer, watching the whole conversation play out in front of her. She may as well have not been there. Only Mother Gisele glanced at her occasionally, with a smile that could either be pity or compassion. Grace chose to go with compassion. It made her feel less stupid. She stared at the map on the table, eyes glazing over, thin smile fixed on her face. Ostwick looked so far away. It didn’t even have a pin marking it, unlike most of the other cities and towns dotting the map.

She wanted to ask about Bassy, send a letter. So far she’d been unable to do either. Surely he’d know about the conclave by now. Half of Thedas seemed to know. She had a letter all ready to go, written before she’d gone to the Hinterlands, but she’d been unable to give it to Josephine. Leliana couldn’t be trusted, she was convinced of that.

By the time she’d finished ruminating on her problem, the Val Royeaux trip had been planned. Grace smiled as the others all nodded at their finalisations. Seemed that all she had to do was turn up and try not to get arrested. As she trudged back to her cottage, she should have been feeling elated. Val Royeaux! The capital of Orlais, a city bigger than Ostwick by many times, and even bigger than Denerim. She should have been excited. Instead, she felt dread.

*

Boat. She was on a bloody boat again. Though this journey promised to be shorter than the last, Grace doubted Varric’s claims that she wouldn’t get seasick if she just chewed some spindleweed. She chewed anyway, bent over the side of the boat with Cassandra rubbing her back in the least supportive way imaginable. At least she was trying.

“You grew up by the sea. You never sailed?” Cassandra asked.

“I always got sea sick.”

Cassandra snorted. She smirked though, and Grace found the humour in the situation.

Not long after Cassandra had gone inside, she was back out again, face pale and with a sweaty sheen. She rushed up to the side of the boat, next to Grace, and promptly voided her lunch into the sea. Grace gave a weak smile and inched closer, placing her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder.

“Remind me again why we came by boat,” Cassandra said, scowling at the sea like she dared it to part and reveal dry land to walk on.

“I think Josephine said something about not having enough noble allies in eastern Orlais,” Grace replied.

Cassandra spat, then took the water skin Grace held out for her. “We shall have to rectify that.”

The pair turned and slid down to sit on the deck, back against the boat’s side. Grace closed her eyes and let the sun and salty air wash over her. Her stomach rumbled but she didn’t care for food.

After a long silence, Cassandra spoke up.

“I did not think it would be this bad,” she said. “I have only ever traveled overland, by horse or wagon. Once by river boat, but that was slower than walking. Never by sea.”

“How did you get to Haven?” Grace asked.

“After I left Nevara, I spent time in Orlais with the Seekers. Kirkwall was the furthest south I had been. I was there looking for a woman and the apostate who lit the fuse for this war. I found neither. I rode back to Val Royeaux with Leliana, empty handed. The Divine told me not to despair. She said that because of who I am, my faith would be tested so. She sent me to Haven to find out if it would be suitable for the Conclave. Halamshiral could have been a possibility, but the Divine preferred the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Andraste’s final resting place. I wonder what she would have said if she knew that it would be her final resting place as well. I rode through a mountain pass, pushing my horse as fast as he could go.” Cassandra barked a laugh. “That poor horse. He was a lot like me. So, you see, never any use for sailing.” She wiped her brow. Colour had returned to her cheeks but her frown was still deep.

Grace stared at Cassandra like she’d just met her for the first time. “The woman you were looking for in Kirkwall. Was that Hawke? The Champion of Kirkwall?” she asked, her excitement allowing her to forget about her sea sickness for a moment. “Whatever for?”

Cassandra rolled her head to face Grace. Grace shrank away from that scrutining glare.

“She… I had a lot of questions for her.”

“Varric said you stabbed his book!”

“Varric says a lot of things.”

“But did you?”

“Yes. I let my temper get the better of me. Perhaps if I hadn’t… If I had listened to the Divine…” She spoke in a whisper that sounded more like a conversation with herself than Grace.

Cassandra said no more for the rest of the day. Both her and Grace refused to go below deck once the sun had set. Varric brought out blankets and the pair made themselves as comfortable as possible, bedding down for a night on the hard wooden boards. Grace clutched her stomach as she tried to sleep but the pitch and roll of the ship kept her from falling under properly. She dreamed of Ostwick and Hawke and sea monsters and woke barely rested at all.

*

Cassandra managed to eat a handful of crackers in the morning. That was more than Grace had held down. Cassandra sat beside her, holding a cool cloth to her forehead while she retched into a bucket between her legs.

Perhaps the sea air addled Cassandra’s mind or maybe the constant, roiling nausea never truly left, because she felt an affinity with Grace. Grace did not share Cassandra’s faith, nor her stubbornness and desire to fix what was wrong, but nonetheless, Cassandra found herself talking to Grace with a candidness she had not experienced with another person for a long time. She mentioned Antony and his death, surprising herself as she spoke, stopping before she spilled too much of herself. Grace spoke of her own brother a raw emotion that hit Cassandra hard. She agreed to send Grace’s letter to him as soon as they returned to Haven. She would even make sure it got past Leliana. Cassandra owed her that much.

Cassandra had found her sea legs by lunchtime of the second day. While she still felt queasy whenever she went below deck, she at least kept her meals down. Though she needn’t have bothered, she took turns with Solas and Varric to sit with Grace. Solas had given her something to settle her stomach, but she still lay deathly pale, shivering under her blankets. She had best get better before meeting the clerics.

“Can you tell me a story?” Grace asked.

Cassandra had been rubbing her back in slow circles like her mother used to do, but now she stopped.

“I am no story teller. You should ask Varric.”

“Tell me about Nevara. What is it like?”

Cassandra found herself lost in nostalgia and memories long into the evening.

*

On the third day, Solas took over consolation duties as Cassandra went to speak with the captain. They would anchor overnight and rendezvous with Leliana’s agents come morning. Grace groaned at the prospect of spending another night being rocked by waves.

“Here,” Solas said. “This is better than spindleweed.”

Grace opened her mouth to accept whatever medicine Solas proffered, only to feel softness wafting over her. Her eyes drooped and she felt herself floating down, into a soft feather bed.

*

Cassandra’s stone expression told Grace she was doing her best to remain patient as Leliana’s agent explained the situation in Orlais. Ask Grace about the Free Marches, about Ferelden, and she’d rattle off houses and Banns and banners. Orlais though, Orlais may as well have been on the moon for all Grace knew. Still, she concentrated, brows furrowed as the agent described just what chaos awaited them.

“The templars await your arrival, as do the clerics. Tensions are high.” The agent turned to Solas. “Not my place to judge ser, but I’d suggest you remain in the shadows.”

Solas arched his brow. “Because I am an elf or an apostate?”

The agent hesitated. “Both?”

Cassandra steeled herself. “Solas, use your judgement.” She turned to Grace. “Come. Let us meet the templars.”

*

Val Royeaux! The capital of Orlais, of Empress Celene. Val Royeaux: bright, colourful, ribbons and flags flying high, the wind warm and inviting. Cool shady courtyards beckoned with exquisite topiaries and perfect flowers. Heady perfumes blossomed from the doors of expensive stores. Gold and silver, blue and red--the colours of Val Royeaux. Even the sun and the sky shone bright for this beautiful city.

But Grace could enjoy none of it as Cassandra ushered the group though eerily quiet streets. Cassandra wore that scowl, determined and fierce. Grace dare not ask when they could rest.

“There, up ahead. Outside the chantry.” Cassandra led the group on, her step even more determined than before. Grace stumbled as she tried to keep up.

Templars and chantry sisters growled and hissed at each other like cats. They didn’t notice the small Inquisition delegation, not at first. Grace watched open-mouthed as the accusations thrown became more fierce. She shrank back, trying to find protection behind Varric, and clenched her gloved fists, hoping against all hope that the mark wouldn’t flare. She couldn’t follow the arguments. No one could agree with each other--sisters and mothers contradicting each other, templars blaming the chantry for its woes.

Solas leaned in to whisper in Grace’s ear. The two at the centre of it all, Revered Mother Hevara and Lord Seeker Lucius. Grace recognised the Mother’s name as the one both Josephine and Mother Gisele had warned about. She lead the dissenters. The ones who would have the Inquisition denounced and destroyed. She appeared to stand unopposed and she lectured on the wrongness of the Inquisition.

So much for gaining alliances. Why couldn’t Mother Gisele have travelled with the group? She was a voice of reason and peace. Instead, Grace stood there with the Inquisition emblem punched into her leather armour, feeling distinctly like a target. Luckily, Cassandra made a good shield.

A Templar pointed to the newcomers, a silver mailed outstretched finger pointing with all the accusation of a mind made up.

“That’s the woman!” he yelled, heedless of the argument going on around him. “She killed the Divine!”

The crowd fell silent, all turning to glare at what that finger pointed to. Grace’s cheeks burned. Sweat prickled in her armpits and rolled down her sides. She took a step back but she hit the edge of a fountain and almost fell in.

“You should be tried and hanged!”

“Imprisoned and left to rot!”

Grace shook her head and cried, but she couldn’t hide the mark, not any more. It pulsed and sparked as if spurred on by the accusations.

“Enough!” Cassandra yelled.

A hush of silence brought all eyes to Cassandra, lasting long enough for Grace to slip behind Solas.

“Lord Seeker Lucius!” Cassandra exclaimed. Her whole demeanor changed, softening from barely controlled contempt to hope. “Please, listen to us.”

“Ah, and here she is. Our wayward Seeker.” Now Lucius was the one with contempt etched over his face. “Did you think yourself too good for us? Leaving the way you did, following the Divine’s orders like a good little puppy. Don’t think we’ll take you back so easily.”

Cassandra scowled so deeply her face appeared as if carved from stone. Lucius continued his rant, parading himself in front of the gathered crowd, his voice raised, gestures exaggerated as if on stage. “Your Divine failed. Your Conclave failed. The Chantry has failed. Orlais, even, is embroiled in a civil war that the Empress cannot control.” He turned whip quick to Cassandra. “Your Inquisition is a joke. A has-been Seeker, a washed out templar and a flock of peasants. What could you possibly hope to achieve?”

Cassandra straightened her back. Lucius hadn’t asked the question expecting an answer, but Cassandra replied anyway.

“We have the Herald!” she shouted.

Solas stepped aside, revealing Grace once more. She did her best to keep her chin up, attention fixed on the chantry’s stone wall behind those arguing.

“You expect us to believe that the only person to escape the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes is the Herald of Andraste?” he scoffed. “Your Herald is nothing but a fraud. Andraste has played no part in this. You are more fool than I thought if you believe she acts through some girl.”

“Lord Seeker--”

“The Templars are done with you. We have been called to a higher power. We wash our hands of the chantry, the circles, the mages, and most of all, _you_.” Lucius indicated for the gathered templars to follow. Some looked to each other nervously, but they fell in behind Lucius anyway. One, near the front of the group, elbowed his way forward and hurled a punch at Mother Hevara. She fell with a groan, cries going up from the gathered sisters. The templars did nothing. The puncher continued strutting, smug as anything. Grace bust into tears again. Sisters gathered around Mother Hevara proffering hankies. A few sobbed.

Cassandra and Solas rushed forward only to be yelled at while Grace stayed rooted to the spot. Cassandra again offered aid only to have it thrown back.

Mother Hevara crawled to her knees, blood pouring down her nose, staining her white robes. “You consider this a victory, Seeker. It is not. You cannot claim you played no part in this. Shown up by our own templars.” She spat blood. Whether she’d intended to be vile or needed to clear her mouth, Grace wasn’t sure. “Leave us. We will pick up the pieces and continue.”

“You cannot hope to!”  
“We will do what we must.”

Cassandra turned and walked away, Varric following. Solas took Grace by the arm and gently lead her away. What would happen now, she did not know. Nothing had gone as planned. There was no support for them in Val Royeaux. Not from the Chantry, not from the Templars. The only allies they had were a handful of agents scattered across the largest city in southern Thedas. Cassandra did not lead the group back toward the dock though. She marched further into Val Royeaux like she had a purpose and Grace followed.

*

Ooh. La dee da. A fancy pants noble in fancy pants… pants. Maybe she wasn’t all that fancy, given the way she stared like a stunned fish as she wandered through fancy Val Royeaux. A _real_ noble wouldn’t make it so obvious that she was impressed by all this marble and gold and little sculpted trees. Whatever. It was all rubbish.

Oh, but what’s that? She bumped into a servant and said, “Sorry.” Actually said sorry! Maybe she wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Sera could use her.

Sera crept through the shadows over the roofs, keeping the Herald, or whatever, in sight. The group she was with stood around talking to that other group--templars and chantry types in funny hats. Pah. Templars. Just as bad as nobles, that lot.

Well, couldn’t hurt to see what she was like in a fight. And if she liked fun.

Sera scribbled off a note, stuck an arrow through it, took aim, fired… bull’s eye! Right in front.

The grumpy one looked around, on edge, but the Herald one, she picked up the note. She smiled. Sera smiled. Oh yes, this would be good.

*

Cassandra was loathe to leave the Hearld’s side but the Herald displayed a stubbornness that Cassandra could appreciate and the threat--or tip-off--that had been delivered by arrow in the streets of Val Royeaux needed to be investigated. Cassandra could do that alone. The Herald would be nothing but a burden right now. She needed to be left somewhere safe, so Cassandra hailed a carriage and gave the driver a location in the quieter, richer part of the city. The driver held the door open as the group piled in. He didn’t bat an eye, nor did he assess the passengers but Cassandra didn’t doubt that he knew just who they were.

The busy and bustle and tall buildings filtered away as the horse clip clopped through the city. Cassandra did her best not to marvel as she stared out of the carriage window. Grace had no such restraint. She leant over Cassandra, head bobbing about like a sparrow’s as she looked at as much as possible. What glimpses of her face Cassandra caught told her that the Herald had not fully recovered from the insults outside the chantry. Perhaps she was distracting herself. Or maybe she had the attention span of a sparrow as well as the looks.

The driver dropped the group off outside a five story mansion. Grandiose in the extreme, it was built close to the road so people could admire the wealth of the owners. It only had a modest hedge to allow the ground floor privacy. Cassandra dropped a small bag of coins in the driver’s hand and lead her party away from the ridiculous mansion.

Three mansions and much walking later, Cassandra noticed a gap in a hedge so small as to look scraggly for Orlesian standards. She waved Solas, Varric and Grace through, looked behind her, then slipped in. After a short walk over violently green grass, they popped out on a path wide enough for two horses and carts to pass each other. They followed the gentle curve, revealing a modest mansion. Modest for Orlesian tastes. Behind her, Grace gasped but neither Solas nor Varric made a noise. Lord Currier Le Maitre stood in the doorway and ushered everyone inside.

“I heard you were in town,” he said, his voice softly accented. He took their refreshment orders himself and suggested that they make themselves at home.

“Does he not have any servants?” Grace asked, whispering.

“Strange, for an Orlesian,” Varric said.

“He is an ally. One with a modest amount of coin and a modest amount of sway. Be nice.” Cassandra put her sword and shield down on the floor then perched on the edge of the couch, worried that her armour might pierce the fabric. The others did the same. They all looked out of place and Cassandra felt a pang of worry that she really had gone over her head. Before she could dwell, Currier returned with wine and glasses. Cassandra explained what happened outside the chantry while Currier cocked his head, listening. He nodded thoughtfully, ‘ahhed’, and never interrupted. “We received a threat on our way out of the city,” Cassandra said. “We have traveled far and not all of us are up to whatever looms behind closed doors. We humbly request your sanctuary for a night.”  
Currier steepled his fingers, rested his nose on his index fingers and looked from Cassandra to Grace, to Varric and Solas. Maker, if he said no then they’d have to spend the night on the ship.

“Of course, Lady Cassandra,” he finally said. “I would be honoured.”  
Cassandra laid out her plan. She and Solas would return to the city and follow up on the note. Grace and Varric would stay here and not move, not touch anything, and generally be on their best behaviour.

Currier chuckled. “So little faith in your Herald? What am I to make of that, hmm?”

Cassandra scowled. “It is not Lady Trevelyan I worry about.”

Varric put his hands up in surrender. “I haven’t done anything! Seeker, I’ll just stay here on this plush settee and read some of those charming-looking books from that gilded bookcase over there.”

They engaged in a staring contest, which Cassandra won. “Very well. Solas?”

Solas stood with Cassandra. Currier walked them to the door.

“Be careful, Lady Cassandra. These are dark times we live in,” he said.

“The same to you, Currier.”  
“The Herald will be safe here, for a time. But do not linger longer than you need.”

Cassandra nodded, then headed back into the viper’s nest.

*

Varric patted out a tune on his knee while he and Grace waited for Le Maitre to return. Grace sat up straight, attentive, like any good noble girl had been taught to do, though she looked on the verge of sleep. Le Maitre returned with another bottle of wine, but he didn’t sit.

“You will have to excuse me, Lady Trevelyan, Ser Tethras. I am a man of quiet contemplation. You may have run of the downstairs. My quarters are upstairs, should you need me.” He bowed, then left.

Huh. Strange guy. Not the strangest thing that had happened to them that day though. The most remarkable part of all the shit that happened wasn’t the Templars storming off, or even a Templar landing one square on a Revered Mother. No, what was remarkable was hearing Grace and Cassandra laughing. Together. How in the Maker’s name had that happened? Varric had to wait an age for his opportunity ask just what the in the Maker’s name was going on. He ran his question over in his mind. _Maker, I didn’t even know you could laugh, let alone the Seeker. Did a rift open up and swallow me?_ No, that wasn’t right. How about--

“What do you make of all this?” Grace asked.

Damn, beaten to the punch. That was rare. “What, the Templars throwing a hissy fit or how you and Cassandra seem inseparable now?” There, that got the question in. Nice and subtle. “I’m more surprised about the latter, than the former.”

Grace dropped her gaze to her wine, a soft smile playing on her lips.

“We got talking on the boat,” she said. “We found we have some common ground. Or, at least, an understanding of each other that we didn’t have before.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. She’s not so bad, you know, once you get past the stabby eyes and the stabby daggers.”

Grace finished her wine and poured herself another, emptying the bottle. She apologised but Varric didn’t mind. That Orlesian stuff was way too… fragrant for his tastes. He could do with a drink though, but looking around, he couldn’t see anything other than the second bottle Le Maitre had brought in.

“You never answered my question. What do you make of what happened before?” Poor girl did look like she was at the end of her tether. She gulped down the next glass of wine in a hurry, that’s for sure.

“Well, we found out that the Lord Seeker and the Templars have lost leave of their senses and won’t be any use to us. We also know that the majority of the Chantry think we’re upstart usurpers. Does that help?”

Grace frowned at Varric, sucked in the corner of her lip. She had an cute thinking face--reminded him of Merrill. Made her look a lot younger than she was. She drummed her fingers on the arm of her settee and sat forward.

“Can I be honest with you, Varric?” The seriousness of her voice caught him off guard. She twirled the wine glass between her fingers, studying him as he studied her. He inclined his head, inviting her to continue. “I don’t care about all this.” She waved her free hand at the lounge but clearly she meant more than the pomp of Val Royeaux. “Maybe I just don’t understand this mage-templar conflict properly. I probably should, shouldn’t I? I haven’t been affected by it until now. Perhaps that’s why my parents wanted me to go to the Conclave. So I could understand.” She stared into her glass but Varric suspected she hadn’t finished speaking yet. Like any good storyteller, he waited. “I’m sick of being blamed for the Divine’s death. I didn’t want any of this. You know, we Trevelyans are big Chantry supporters. A lot of us end up in the Chantry, or as Templars. I was supposed to serve the Chantry, but I hated it. All those chants are so boring. I guess I was lucky. My parents agreed to let stay out of the Chantry if I married instead. After the Conclave, we were to travel and I was to meet the Couslands, or what remains of them. The Aringtons too. Instead, I’m here. Funny.”

Varric didn’t think it all that funny to him. And neither did Grace, really. Before he could go and suggest that they get shit faced over a few rounds of Wicked Grace--hey, there was the set up to a joke--Grace stood.

“I need to lie down,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your books.”

Varric stared at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase for a long while. He realised he didn’t really care about all this, either. Why had he followed the Seeker? Why hadn’t he stayed in Kirkwall? This wasn’t his war to fight. His fight was back in Kirkwall, where this whole damn mess had started. He couldn’t go back now. Not yet, anyway. He was too invested in the story, wanting to know how it played out. What role Grace would take, how many people Cassandra could skewer on her sword. What kind of apostate Solas was. And most importantly, if he could figure out the Ambassador’s tell. Yeah, he was in this for the long haul. He sighed, stood, and found a book or two worth thumbing through.

*

Cassandra read over the note that had been attached to the arrow. ‘A threat to the Inquisition’, it said. And an offer to help, to bring ‘everyone’. It contained a key, wrapped in a red handkerchief. Bulky, the kind that opened a dungeon door, perhaps. It smelled like a trap.

“What do you make of this?” she asked Solas.

He smiled. “I think we have a puzzle to solve, Seeker.”

Andraste help us, Cassandra thought. Another problem to solve. Just what she needed.

The key alone was not enough. The note included a picture at the bottom and Cassandra knew exactly what it depicted. She headed to the stairs that would take her and Solas up to the richer, more lavish shops of the city. At the top, she wandered around, trying to match the view to the picture on the note, eager to get this over with.

“Perhaps it would be wise if we were more subtle, Seeker,” Solas said at one of Cassandra’s many stops.

“For what purpose? To any of these people we are just tourists checking our map. Help me look, will you? Ah, yes, I believe this is the spot.”

Cassandra sat on a stone bench and pretended to admire the flowers while she scanned the ground for another red handkerchief. In not too much time, she spied it and sent Solas to pick it up.

Another clue for another location, this time as a rhyme.

“I hate rhymes,” Cassandra said.

*

The Red Puzzle, as they’d taken to calling it, took Cassandra and Solas all through the retail and commercial districts of Val Royeaux, even right back out to the dock. Cassandra took a moment to confer with the captain of their vessel before picking up the trail again.

They found the final clue in a cafe, under a table. Cassandra had intended on leaving immediately but an obsequious attendant insisted that they not leave without trying a glass of the cafe’s very own spring water. Cassandra acquiesced and found herself glad for a chance to rest her feet. However she frowned as she unwrapped the clue. “‘The blue door. You’ll know it when you see it.’” She huffed. “This has wasted enough of our time. Let us leave.”

Solas took the note from her hand. “Wait, we can put this together.” He studied the clues, shuffling them, reading fast. “Yes. I know what door the notes speak of. Come, follow me.”

Cassandra went to protest but Solas cut in. “We’ve come this far, Seeker. It would be a shame not to solve the puzzle now, wouldn’t it?”

“Fine.” She said.

Winding their way back through Val Royeaux, down a path off the main square, through a warren of lanes and out into a courtyard of respectable looking houses they’d passed in their earlier searches, there it was: the blue door.

“Your sense of adventure never fails to amaze me, Solas,” Cassandra said.

She slipped the found key out of her pocket and into the door, rattling it until it fit and turned.

A shout, the tingle of magic.

Cassandra raised her shield in time to deflect the volley of fireballs thrown at her. They were weak, no more than an annoyance. Some mage this was.

“Ah-ha! So we finally meet, _Herald of Andraste._ You must have gone to great lengths to find me.” A posturing, parading Orlesian man. Masked. Well dressed. Just what Cassandra needed.

Cassandra lowered her shield and raised her sword just enough to keep her on the defence. Solas stood beside her, alert.

“And just who are you.” She didn’t bother framing the question.

“Me? You ask _me_ that question? Why, I am your nemesis! Your worst nightmare!”

More posturing. Solas could knock him out and Cassandra could bundle him up, take him back to Haven for questioning. Before she could give Solas the nod though, a flicker caught in the corner of Cassandra’s eye. She turned in time to see an elf, bow drawn at the noble. She did not have time to make an assessment on this development before the elf let the arrow loose, burying it right between the eyes of the noble.

“Nutted!” the elf called. She strode forward into the light. “Pish. Didn’t even know who the real Hearld was anyway.” She nudged him with her boot. “My people said he’d be a _real_ challenge. But he’s just a nug-shite nob head, like all of them.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Cassandra drew her sword. “Are you Red Jenny? I needed to question him!”

The elf pulled the arrow out of the man’s face. Cassandra didn’t recognise his heraldry. “My people helped me help you. All goes around, right? This helping thing.”

“But--”

The elf got angry. “But nothing. I can help. I want to help and I know people who can help. And you need help, right?”

Cassandra nodded, bewildered.

Solas stepped forward. “Perhaps we can start at the beginning. I am Solas, and this is Cassandra. You are…”

“I’m Sera.”

 “Sera,” Cassandra repeated.

“Right. Sera. That’s me. Look, my friends, the Red Jennys, we leave each other tips. Nobs that need to be taken down, vaults that might have been left open, that sort of thing.”

“How does that help us?”

Sera rolled her eyes. “For someone who carries such a big sword, you’re not that sharp. Look. It’s like this. Little people do all the work down here while big people do no work up there. You’re big people. But you can’t do your big important work without little people making your food and wiping your arses.”

“So… you have servants? Helpers, cooks?”

“Not me. I’m just me, one person. I have a bow and I have arrows.” She crossed her arms, shifted from foot to foot. “Look. I’d hoped I’d get to meet the ‘Herald of Andraste’”--she used finger quotes around the title--”Myself. Here. But I’ve got you. And you.” She nodded at Solas, a grimace. “But from what I’ve seen, she’s alright so I’ll join anyway.”

“I don’t even know who you are!”

Sera sighed. “I already told you who I am. Sera. _Seh-rah_. Sera. Huh. Sounds funny when you say it that many times. Sera.” She stuck her hand out and shook Cassandra’s firm, albeit confused hand “”Come on, let’s go! I hear you’ve got horses.”

She ran ahead, giggling like a maniac. Cassandra turned to Solas. He shrugged, but smirked.

“We do need all the help we can get, Seeker,” he said, enigmatic as always.

*

Grace, Varric, and Le Maitre were enjoying an almost silent dinner when Cassandra burst through the doors.

“We leave before dawn,” Cassandra announced.

“But we only just got here,” Grace moaned.

“Lady Herald. Perhaps you have failed to grasp the severity of our situation. The templars have ceded from the Chantry. Without the Chantry keeping them in check, there can be no hope for peace. I do not understand what has gotten into the Lord Seeker’s head. He was always such a reasonable man. But this war has affected many people in strange ways. We need to discuss this back at Haven.”

“Did you find Red Jenny?” Varric asked with a smirk.

Cassandra grunted. A short elf with… an interesting haircut and even more interesting pants stepped into view, and stuck her tongue out.

“Well I’ll be a nug’s uncle. You really do exist! Welcome to the team, Jenny, I presume?”

“I’m only sort of Jenny. I’m more Sera. Watch where you point your arrow, and I’ll watch where I point mine.”

Varric grinned, and she grinned back.

“Like I said. Welcome aboard.” This…. this could get interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten Vivienne! She makes her appearance in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, I never really figured out or liked the way Fiona was introduced in Val Royeaux, so expect a bit of canon divergence. All for the better, I think.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter so far :) Vivienne! Krem! Seanna!

When Vivienne had been nineteen and newly arrived at the Montsimmard Circle, a fellow mage took exception to her intelligence and had tried to discredit her abilities through the most base and pathetic form of bullying Vivienne had ever encountered. The man considered her a threat and with good reason, so his reaction had been perfectly natural. She had retaliated with her usual grace and charm and the mage in question had been silenced. Not permanently--Vivienne was only nineteen after all. But her tactic had worked and he didn’t bother her again.

Now she was in the same situation once more only the stakes were considerably higher than the pettiness of Circle favourites. Vivienne’s position was under threat--from an _apostate_ no less. How insulting.

This tear in the Fade had set the Empress on edge, like it had many in the court. Vivienne, if she allowed herself a moment to consider it, would probably fear it too, but she had bigger problems to deal with. The circles for one. When they fell, Vivienne had carefully played the situation; not going so far as to announce herself as the leader of the loyalist mages. No. She merely planted the idea and let others do the naming. She was now the voice of the majority of Orlais’ mages and a generous half of Ferelden’s. The Free Marches were always difficult to gauge, but from her contacts, a few of the city states’ mages had pledged their loyalty to the White Spire. The rest were fools. Either having thrown their lot in with that dolt Fiona or going alone as true apostates. Both groups were fools. Fiona and her companions especially. Any mage had the potential to be dangerous but Fiona’s congregation were a tinder box waiting for a match.

The Inquisition was an interesting third player. With authority from a now-deceased Divine, the condemnation of the Chantry, and barely any allies, they stood about as much chance of succeeding as Fiona’s little rebel club. They did have the so called Herald, though. Such a pity Vivienne hadn’t been available to organise a meeting when the Inquisition had waltzed into the capital expecting all to drop to one knee and pledge fealty. No, she’d been rather preoccupied at the time. The _apostate_ had arrived at court weeks earlier and had already wormed her way into Celene’s ear. Vivienne had not transformed the title of Court Enchanter into a position of power only to lose it to that witch. Unfortunately, unlike all those years ago at Montsimmard, a plan more cunning than blackmail was called for.

“The Inquisition has once again petitioned Orlais,” Celene said. “This time for mages.”

Vivienne scoffed as she topped up Celene’s glass, then her own.

“What do they want with mages?” she asked, lacing the question with scorn. She knew what they wanted mages for and she knew what Celene would suggest.

Celene passed the letter over so Vivienne could read it herself.

The Ambassador wished for a complement of experienced mages and an appropriate number of loyal Templars to journey to Haven and help seal the breach. She did not say just _how_ these mages could possibly seal the breach, or what magical spells they would use. However, the request for experienced mages and the proximity of Haven to the breach likely meant a desire to avoid creating abominations of them all. Vivienne’s eyebrow arched when she read the introduction to the Inquisition’s own arcane advisor. She did not recognise his name, but it gave her an idea. Vivienne set the letter down and sipped her wine. A fine vintage for a day as lovely as this.

“Lady Morrigan thinks we should send a delegation,” Celene said.

Vivienne kept her expression blank as Celene walked straight down the path Vivienne had even yet to lay. “Perhaps she could lead a delegation. She is, after all, the expert in these matters. If that mirror of her really can do what she claims, then the Inquisition would be smart to put it to good use.” She watched Celene’s unmasked face consider the suggestion. She barely reacted, so good was she at the Game. Vivienne saw enough to know that she was considering the idea and Vivienne looked down at the Inquisition’s letter for allow Celene a measure of privacy.

“I do not think it would be wise to be without Lady Morrigan in these dark days,” Celene said.

“Very wise, your highness.” Vivienne replied with all the dignity she could muster. “Though it would be imprudent to discount an offer all together. For the moment the Inquisition can wait, as can the breach. We must continue to be a bastion of hope and reason for Orlais. An example for the mages and common folk alike. People flock to _your_ banner, Empress, because of your benevolence. We must capitalise on this now that the chantry has lost its heart as well as its head.”

“What do you suggest, Madame de Fer?”

“You step in where the chantry has failed. You are the physical leader of Orlais. Why not be the spiritual leader, as well? The chantry has failed its people. You have not.”

“You suggest I proclaim myself Divine in all but name?”

Scandalous, yes. Vivienne cocked her head and smirked. “I do not see why not. The chantry is in shreds and will dally for years before agreeing on a new Divine. Being Oralis’ heart will consolidate your power and drew allies away from Gaspard. _He_ is your real threat. Not the beach. Leave that to the Inquisition.” Vivienne paused to sip her wine, allowed herself to taste the the beginnings of victory. She set her glass down gently. “Give your subjects even more reason to love you and they will flock to your side, leaving your cousin clutching at stalks.”

Celene hummed and nodded. That would have to do for the moment.

*

Ferelden smelled like wet, muddy dogs that had been rolling around in dead sheep carcases. A far cry from the dry plains of central Orlais. Hardly seemed like a great place to set up Inquisition HQ, but Bull supposed that the upstart order, devoid of all official support--so his most recent report said--couldn’t be too choosy. Still, at least Fereldens spoke what they meant, unlike Orlesians. But he needed to know more about this Inquisition before offering his services. He called Krem over and outlined the situation.

“Go to Haven and scout out this Inquisition. I want details of their set-up. Speak to the Herald if you can, and any other commanders. They’ll have soldiers already, but we need in. Find us a way.”

“Any suggestions?” Krem asked.

Bull looked down the beach to the pile of dead Vints the Chargers had killed a few hours ago. Hadn’t managed to keep any alive for questioning. His boys had been spoiling for a fight after spending so long trudging through snow. His superiors would be scowling at him if they knew. That meant he still didn’t know what Tevinter was doing sending its people this far south. The whole thing made Bull’s skin crawl as much as the demons. “Talk up those Vints. If this Inquisition is half as smart as it’s supposed to be, they’ll be worried about Vints. I’ll leave you to flesh out the details. You’re smart. You’ll think of something.”  
Krem stood up and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll get some supplies and head off then. Keep a cask waiting for me when I return, Chief.”

Bull smiled. “You’ll be lucky.” But he would. He’d make sure of it.

*

The repercussions from Val Royeaux beat Grace’s party back to Haven. Agents ran fast. Ravens flew faster. And Grace couldn’t avoid any of it, holed up as she was in the war room at the back of the chantry. Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana all poured over the reports and messages they’d written and received from Grace’s trip. As usual they mostly ignored her, though Cassandra mentioned her by name and a dip of her head a couple of times.

Grace was yet to properly introduce herself to their newest companion but a note stuck to her cabin door telling her to not be a meanie and come to the tavern told her she couldn’t avoid Sera for long. Whether the bees drawn in place of full-stops were a threat or a doodle, Grace couldn’t be sure. She’d go get it over with once she was done here.

“Herald? Lady Trevelyan?”

Grace looked up. Four pairs of eyes bored into her. Two pairs of eyes scowled, the other two looked pained.

“What is your opinion?” Josephine asked with all the patience of a seasoned diplomat.

“... About?”

Cullen and Leliana sighed. Loud. Grace blushed and squirmed. Not her fault they were boring and she’d drifted off.

“About the mages and the Templars,” Cassandra said.

Oh Maker.

“Yes. Allow me. We have two options.” Josephine tapped her board before continuing. “As evidenced from your trip, the Templars have disbanded and left the Chantry all together. They have gone, for want of a better word, rogue.”

Cullen grunted. “And they’ve headed to Ferelden, picking up more deserters on the way. We are providing refuge for some of the deserters, those who didn’t want to follow Lord Seeker Lucius’ lunacy.”

“Meanwhile, the mages have formed two loose groups. Although the Circles across southern Thedas have fallen, there are some who wish to stay loyal to the Circle and the Chantry. Those from Orlais have allied themselves with Madame Vivienne, First Enchanter to Empress Celene of Orlais. However, those from Ferelden have mostly followed the Grand Enchanter Fiona. They do not seem to want trouble, just a safe place to live--”

“Outside of the Circle,” Cullen added.

Grace frowned. She really should have paid attention instead of staring that the stupid map. Her eyes settled on Ostwick again. And Kirkwall, Starkhaven, and Wycome. “What about the Free Marches cities? Where have their mages gone?”

Cullen snorted. “Kirkwall’s mages have been running loose around the countryside since the city fell. Wycome’s have joined Kirkwall’s chaos. Including some from Ostwick.”

“Word from Ostwick is that most mages have stayed in their Circle and that the Templars have revolted.”  
  
The Templars! That meant Bassy. “My brother, he’s a Templar. In training. He’s always wanted to be a templar. He’d never rebel against the order! I must see him. Can you--”

“Sebastian Trevelyan is fine. He is helping to retain the peace.” Leiana said.

“How do you know?” Grace asked.

“My agents,” Leliana replied.

A lump formed in Grace’s throat. Hope mixed with despair. Why didn’t Leliana say something sooner? Why couldn’t she just tell Grace about Sebastian instead of hiding everything? All she did was evade and deceive, even her own people. From the way her eyes shifted, Grace knew Leliana wasn’t telling the whole truth, but Grace couldn’t question her.

“Moving on,” Cullen said.

Josephine picked up her recap. “Though we have made a request to the Empress for mages to help our cause, we should not expect a positive reply and an audience with either her or her Enchanter is out of the question. Orlais has too much political upheaval of its own owing to the civil war between the Empress and her cousin. That leaves us with Ferelden's mages.”

“The Templars should not be discounted. If we approach them with enough support, we could sway them to join our cause. They will be able to seal the breach,” Cullen said.

“We do not know that, Cullen. And how would we approach them after Lucius’ display? He made himself very clear. We must turn to the mages for help. Let us talk to the Ferelden rebels. They may be desperate but we can provide an incentive for them to conform.”

Cassandra turned to Grace. “This is why we need your opinion.”

Grace startled. They wanted _her_ opinion? All she cared about was whether or not her brother was okay. She gaped, even her hands groping for some thought for her to grip on to.

Cullen shifted impatiently. “Shall we allow the Herald some time to think? Let us take time to consider our options and meet tomorrow, same time.”

The others nodded, gathered their papers or cloaks, and left before Grace could pick up the courage to ask any further questions about Bassy and Ostwick. She pulled her hood over her head and hunched her shoulders, making her way down the less-used paths of Haven to slip through the back door of the Singing Maiden. She let her eyes adjust before flipping her hood down. She’d not been here yet. Not much of a drinker or socialiser, but she’d heard the hoots and laughter as she’d passed on her way to her hut every evening.

Sera, clearly visible in the middle of the tavern with Varric beside her, was deep in telling some joke, so she didn’t notice Grace finding a seat at an empty table. The barmaid came to ask Grace what she wanted and looked ready to faint when she realised who she was serving. Fortunately, she kept herself quiet and when she returned, wine bottle and a glass in hand, she did so on tiptoes.

Grace took the time to watch Sera, figure her out. She’d been sick again on the return journey and she’d shunned most talk as they rode through the rising hills to Haven. She’d gleaned from Cassandra and Varric that Sera was odd and no one really knew what she was on about. Something about ‘people’. She hadn’t been seen as a threat though. No, she’d given the Inquisition a tip on a potential enemy, said she could do more like that, with ‘people’. She had a strange bowl cut to her blonde hair, like she cut it herself. A ripped and stained tunic and plaidweave leggings. Grace liked the leggings. Not so sure about the tunic. Grace supposed she ought to talk to her. Would be rude not to, especially since Sera had travelled so far and hadn’t tried to lay the blame for the breach on Grace’s shoulders.

Sera’s story finished in gales of giggles, though mostly from her. She snorted when she laughed. How cute. Finally Grace caught her eye and Sera grinned wide, dancing over the table tops to plop herself down opposite Grace.

“Got my message, yeah? Good one. So. Who are you?” She had a way with introductions, this Sera.

Grace’s mouth fell open, confused and already out of her depth. “I’m Grace Trevelyan. From Ostwick. In the Free Marches.”

“Yeah, but _who_ are you. What are you doing?”

“Right now or in general? I’m talking to you? You invited me here. I’m sorry, I don’t understand--”

“I saw you in Val Royeaux. I saw your hand go green and thought, oh pish, that’s not right, but it was the same green as that hole in the sky. Then the grumpy lady you were with started banging on about you being the Herald of Andraste or something. You’re doing something. You. None of the others are doing anything. Do you even know what you’re doing? Doesn’t matter I suppose. I want to help, so here I am. Helping.”

“Right.” Grace took a gulp of her wine just so she wouldn’t have to say anything else.

Sera did the same, pouring a generous helping from Grace’s bottle straight into her mouth. Grace stared, completely flummoxed. She shut her mouth with a click of her teeth. She thought carefully before speaking.

“Cassandra said you had people. Are they here?” Maker, she better not have to meet them. She wasn’t sure whether she could cram any more names into her head.

“They could be here. You got nobles here, right? So you’ll have Jennies.”

“Jennies?”  
  
“Red Jennies. We help.”

“Like servants?”

Sera blew a raspberry. “No. Well, yes. But we, they, don’t help like servants help. We help each other. Got someone high up being a dick? We can knock them down a peg or two. You just have to say the word.”

Grace didn’t ask what the word was. She wasn’t sure there was one. But if Sera thought she could help, then that was great. While Cullen and Cassandra relied on brute force, Josephine on diplomacy, and Leliana on her network of spies and agents, Grace was sure Sera and the mysterious Red Jennies would fit in somehow. She said as much and finished her wine. She feigned a yawn, made her excuses and hurried back to the safety of her cabin before a headache set in. Hopefully Josephine would figure out what, or who, Sera was all about. Better her than Grace, that was for sure.

*

Within an hour of reaching Haven, Krem had identified the commander, the ambassador, the Seeker, had maybe figured out the spy master, definitely the quartermaster, arms master, farrier and alchemist. They were well decked out and as he watched the soldiers practice, he saw what good training they had. But they were a ragtag bunch on the whole. Needed more discipline. Looked like good money though, based on the gear they had. The only person he hadn’t seen was the Herald. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was looking for. A woman with a bow. That’s all he knew. He’d seen a lot of women with bows. But he had time. He took a seat on a low wall near the chantry and settled in for the long haul.

After another day of encampment, Krem still hadn’t seen the Herald. He began to rehearse a speech for the ambassador, figuring she was the most likely one to agree to sign up a mercenary band. The commander wouldn’t want freelancers and the spy master would be too wary.

As he considered walking into the chantry, he spotted a woman sneaking out from around the corner of the building, bow in hand. He’d seen her yesterday too, and this morning. There wasn’t anything around that side of the chantry. Just the stone wall, a gap, then the snow covered hillside. Odd. She was headed away from the chantry when the commander jogged up to her.

“Lady Herald,” he said. “Our meeting is about to start. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Krem’s ears pricked and he affected nonchalance as he moved closer to listen.

The Herald slumped, her face falling.

“You are a part of this as much as we are.” That commander. So earnest. Bull will have a field day with him.

They headed inside, oblivious of Krem. He watched until the door closed. Huh. So that woman he’d seen stomping around all grumpy like was the Herald. Not who he’d’ve picked to save the world, but the Maker, or whoever, had a funny way of working sometimes. At least he had a face now. He’d intercept her the next moment he could, though whether she’d be interested was another matter entirely.

*

Setting out food and water had been a good idea. Grace had rustled seven cats so far. Granted, most of them were wild and wanted nothing to do with her, but three of them were content to let her pat them while they ate. She cooed at them, told them they were good kitties, very good kitties for eating those nasty nugs.

She shivered as she crouched around the side of the chantry and stroked one of the grey cats as it chomped on some nug bones. Setting up on the dark side of the chantry might not have been the best idea, but she had privacy here. No one would see her unless they really went looking and here was safer than hiding in her cabin. People would knock on her door day and night otherwise. At least this way she could say she’d been out doing important work once she was inevitably intercepted.

Near the entrance to her nook, two sisters prattled on about the Maker and Andraste, and whether Grace really was the Herald. That seemed to be their spot, just on the edge of the Chantry, where the sun shone all day, warming the stones and providing a place to see the comings and goings. Pity Grace could hear just about every word.

Her legs cramped so she shuffled further along the wall, away from the sisters, doing her best to ignore the snow. The grey cat licked its paw and washed its face, then climbed onto Grace’s lap.

“Oh, kitty! Good kitty.” She stroked it while it circled to find a comfortable spot. Eventually it plopped down and started purring. “I’m going to call you Wiggles the Second.” Well she couldn’t move now. Unfortunately, this meant her mind had a chance to wander. She thought of Val Royeaux, the Templars and mages and how the Inquisition needed to build alliances and all.

And the most important alliance to build at the moment? Grand Enchanter Fiona’s Ferelden mages. The advisors had come to that decision without Grace’s help, as she knew they would. But the required trip was well off. Something about building influence and spreading positive propaganda first, lending credence to the Inquisition in the hopes of looking like good allies for Fiona. Fine by Grace. She could sit here and wait for Cullen and Josephine and Leliana to make nice with people, then get dragged to wherever she had to go, smile, maybe wave her hand at the sky, and then come back here to her cats.

Grace’s stomach started to rumble and by the darkness in her nook, she figured dinner wasn’t far off being served. She eased the cat off her lap, saying she’d be back in the morning with fresh nug meat and water, stood up, brushed the snow from her trousers and snuck back down the side of the chantry and into Haven’s evening light.

“My Lady, if you have a moment.”

Grace slowed her pace and grimaced in what she hoped was a smile at the man who’d called to her.

“Hello.” Was he new? Surely she would’ve remembered seeing someone as handsome as him in the village.

“My name is Cremisius Aclassi, I’m a lieutenant with the Bull’s Chargers, a mercenary company. My commander is the Iron Bull. He has a proposition for you.”

“Oh. That’s nice of him. Is he here? I can have him meet with people if he’d like…” Grace thumbed over her shoulder at the chantry, wishing for once that Cullen or Josephine would intercept her.

Cremisius smiled. What a lovely smile. “No, he’s down on the Storm Coast with the rest of the Chargers dealing with Tevinters. Seems they’ve come south. There’s plenty to go around, if you’re interested. He’s keen to meet you, even join on.”

“Has he heard of the Inquisition, then?” And he didn’t hate it? That was a nice change.

“He has indeed. He thinks you’re doing good work and he wants to work for you. No need to buy us sight unseen. Come and see us in action.”

Grace frowned. “Why would we buy you?”

Cremisius shifted his weight, tilted his head. “We’re mercenaries. You sign us on, pay us coin, and we go where you need us, make dead who you want dead. We’re well respected throughout Orlais, just ask around.”

He held out a piece of paper for Grace. She took it, looked it over.

“Details. Where you can find us. Like I said, the Iron Bull is keen to meet you.”

“He sounds delightful. I look forward to meeting him.” Grace gave Cremisius her best smile and stepped back, hoping that would be enough to send him on his way.

“My lady.” Cremisius bowed and turned to leave.

Grace watched him go and looked at the note again. The Storm Coast. Ostwick was just over the sea. If anything came of this trip, the chance to spy home would be worth it alone. She’d tell Josephine and Cullen over dinner.

*

“We don’t need mercenaries.” Cullen spoke like the words left a distaste in his mouth. “We need _soldiers_.”

“Tevinters in the South? That is what this Cremisius said?” Cassandra said.

Cullen humphed. “Unlikely.”

“What if it’s true and they had something do with the breach and the explosion at the conclave?” Grace asked.

The clatter of knives and forks died away. Cullen, Cassandra, and Josephine all stared at Grace. She dipped her head down, face burning. Stupid thing to say. Fortunately Leliana was absent.

“That… actually sounds like a fair point.” Cullen sounded impressed. Grace risked a glance. He even had a smile.

“So we can hire the Chargers then?” Grace asked, more excited at the prospect of heading out to the Storm Coast than actually engaging in skirmishes and mercenaries.

The three exchanged glances, various nods of agreement.

“I will go with the Herald,” Cassandra said. “This will be a good chance to break in the horses and make our presence known in greater Ferelden.”

Josephine suggested they make use of their allies at the Crossroads, where Mother Gisele had been.

Cullen added, “Take them supplies. Food, blankets, herbs. Remind them that we are here to stop the chaos, not add to it.”

The three worked over the details of the trip. Inventory, travel times, names of friends and foe. They would send Scout Harding out immediately so she could get a head start, then they would capitalise on her work, camping at Inquisition sites, establishing their presence and following up any of her tips.

All this would take time but Cassandra, Grace, Solas, and Varric could head out when the preparations were ready. Grace actually felt excited at the prospect of travelling again. Hopefully she would not say anything stupid to alienate Cassandra’s growing friendship.

*

“My lady!”

Grace would have normally kept her head low and picked up her speed on hearing that call, but she recognised the voice. She turned, daring not to hope. But yes, it was!

“Seanna!” She kept from running, making herself walk over to the stables instead. Seanna grinned and wrapped Grace into a hug.

“When did you arrive?” Grace asked.

“Just this morning,” Seanna replied. She nodded behind her, where Dennett and one of the Inquisition’s stable hands fussed around the horses. “They look good, don’t they? They’ll do well here, I know it. Faith looks in good condition, too.”

All of Grace’s questions bubbled up, getting so caught that she couldn’t ask anything. No matter, Seanna was in Haven!

“I hear you’re to head out tomorrow,” Seanna said.

Grace’s face fell. Oh, yes, she was. But how could she now? She worked her tongue free. “We leave for the Storm Coast. Maker, it’ll be another long trip and I’ve only just recovered from the last!”

Seanna laughed. “That’s what being the Herald will do, I suppose.”

Not wanting to leave Seanna just yet, Grace grabbed her by the hands. “Will you have dinner with me? I’ve cheese and bread in my cabin. Please?”

Seanna nodded and Grace’s heart leapt. Though Grace should’ve been planning on getting an early night for her dawn start tomorrow, she couldn’t care. She’d talk all through the night if Seanna so wished. Maker, a friend at last!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace and Bull finally meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers with good memories might recognise a couple of these scenes from tumblr. The one near at the end was one of the first things I wrote for Bull and Grace and I knew I wanted to include it within their longer story.

Yes. Rain. Grace tilted her head back and let the rain fall on her face. She filled her lungs with sea air and damp forest. Scout Harding had met the group at the Inquisition camp at the edge of the forest, on a cliff that marked the natural boundary between the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast. She’d filled in the group, let them know about bandits roving the coast and missing Inquisition soldiers and all sorts of other news to despair at. Grace’d not really listened, staring out at the sea instead. Ostwick was over there, over those waves. How long would her letter take to get to Bassy, she wondered.

Cassandra called her over, pointed to the map, sodden like everything else. “We’re here. The Iron Bull says he’s down here. What is your plan?”

Why did Cassandra insist on asking Grace these questions? Why couldn’t she make the plan herself? She was good at that. Grace studied the map. The Iron Bull was close. But the bandits had been harder for Harding to deal with. Oh but she was so tired from their journey. Not to mention the sorry state of her arse from a long week of horse riding.

“Perhaps those of us who are tired can rest here.” She couldn’t quite meet Cassandra’s scowl but she offered a hopeless smile. “You could take Varric! And Scout Harding. She will know of some experienced soldiers who could accompany you. Solas could go too, if he wanted. Or he could stay here. Maybe we can collect some herbs. We wouldn’t wander far.”

“But I didn’t bring my herb collecting basket,” Solas said. Grace was about to apologise when she spotted his smirk and realised he was joking. “A chance for a rest would be appreciated, Seeker. Grace and I will keep company.”

Cassandra nodded her agreement. “Varric, what of you?”

Varric caressed his crossbow. “Bianca never tires.”

“Then it is settled.” Cassandra went to arrange travel and combat with Scout Harding while Grace made herself at home in the camp.

A nice camp, too. Five big tents, able to sleep four people each, but given the numbers they may get two to a tent. Grace claimed one then went to help unload the horses with Solas and the chief officer of camp--a brusque but efficient young woman, her armour all polished to a shine despite the dirt and wet of the forest.

Cassandra and Harding spent the evening discussing tactics while Varric tried to teach both Grace and Solas the intricacies of Diamondback. Good thing they were only playing for twigs or Grace would have gone bankrupt.

As the night settled in and the yawns became more frequent, Cassandra sidled up to Grace. “My lady, would you mind us sharing a tent? The nights get cold here in Ferelden.” She sounded so hesitant, rubbing her hands together like she was already cold.

Grace grinned. “Of course! I would be delighted. Let me make space for you.”

Grace suppressed her smiles as she got ready for bed. She and Cassandra had shared a cabin in the ship along the Waking Sea, and then tavern rooms on their journey to Val Royeaux. Of course she wouldn’t mind sharing with Cassandra again. They were far from being giggling girls having a sleepover, but Cassandra was warming to Grace and Grace welcomed it.

When Grace woke not long after dawn, she found her tent-mate gone. Not altogether unpleasant smells from the fire roused her. She hunched over to awkwardly buckle on the last of her ranging armour then made her way out into the soft morning light.

Solas greeted her with a welcome good morning and a cup of tea. His own mug, though, smelled different.

“Our friends made an early start,” he said. “Come. Let us eat. Then we can plan our day.”

Being around Solas gave Grace the comfort of home. He was like Father. Softly spoken, quietly commanding. When he spoke, Grace listened. From her short time in Haven, and travelling to and from Val Royeaux, Solas had counselled her, helped her. When her hand hurt or flared, he took it in his and eased the burning. The mark wasn’t any magic he knew, but he did what he could. Best of all, he wasn’t blaming her for having the mark in the first place. He just… helped. Like he was helping now.

His joke at not having brought his herb collecting basket had been taken seriously by the requisition officer. She brought out a basket and offered it to him with a show of solemnity that the situation didn’t call for. Grace could see Solas trying to keep a straight face, and that in turn made her laugh into her fist.

They didn’t have to wander far from camp to find herbs. The Storm Coast was abundant with useful plants. Grace knew some, Solas knew others. As they walked and picked, Grace peppered Solas with questions. He seemed content to answer them, happy that someone was interested. Grace suspected he didn’t have many friends. He spoke like he hadn’t had a conversation in a long time until Grace brought up the topic of family.

“Where were you born?” she asked.

“I was brought up in a village to the north.”

Grace knew that wasn’t a proper answer but she had the decency not to push. Instead she asked where he’d come from before joining the Inquisition.

“I was nearby. I felt the explosion as much as I heard it. I came to see if I could help. Perhaps there were survivors. I found Lady Cassandra and offered my help. I was the only mage for miles around. You came to her attention, I did what I could and now… here I am.” He picked a leaf from a bush. Not a useful herb or anything. Just a leaf. Like he wanted to keep his hands busy.

“Will you stay?” Grace asked, thumbing the same bush Solas had picked the leaf from.

“For now, yes.”

They worked in silence until rustling in a nearby bush turned out to be a bear. Only a baby but where there were babies there was likely to be an angry mother. And the angry mother turned out to be behind a boulder. She roared, rearing onto her back legs, towering over both Grace and Solas.

Solas cast a spell, the chill passing right through Grace and freezing the bear in place.

“Run!” he yelled.

He needn’t have said anything: Grace had already made a dash, only to skid to a halt, run back, grab her basket of black lotus. In those few seconds, the spell dropped and the bear made a lunge, albeit slowly, towards Grace. She slashed with her herb knife, getting a cut across the bear’s nose before sprinting.

The bear couldn’t keep up, or chose not to once the pair were far enough away. Grace panted, hands on knees, and was dismayed to find her basket empty. She looked back and saw a few cuttings of black lotus dotting the ground. She dare not return for them, not when she knew an angry bear could pounce on her at any second.

“Grace, are you okay?” Solas asked.

She was. Mostly. The shock had been the scariest part. “We could’ve taken it,” she said. “We’ve fought plenty already.” Her voice rang in her ears; she hadn’t realised how loudly she’d spoken. Maybe she was more affected than she thought she was. Solas gave her a sympathetic smile.  She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Come on. Let’s get back to camp.”

Later in the day, a horn sounded. The officers in camp rushed around, stoking the fire, prepping food and water. A few minutes later, Cassandra came into sight, riding up the hill, followed by Varric, Harding, and the soldiers. One horse had no rider. The way the group’s shoulders sagged, the plodding of the horses, the muck and twigs and wear to them told Grace everything she needed to know. Her eyes welled up and she tried to blink away the tears. No good.

She helped the best she could, taking weapons and armour, stashing them for cleaning, leading the horses away. She took charge of grooming the one who’d returned without his rider. As she washed and brushed the horse, she cried. She supposed she knew that people would die. She’d killed a few herself by now, but to her have people from her own side taken… It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. The horse stomped its foot and Grace did the same.

“I’m sorry,” she said to it. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

The rest of the evening passed with the somber determination of a group swallowing their emotions. Most were engaged in fixing armour or weapons, sitting around the fire. Others processed the herbs Grace and Solas had collected and not lost to the bear chase. Cassandra and Harding filled in Grace about their day.

“We killed the bandits,” Cassandra said.

“But not before they got one of our own,” Harding added. The hardness in her voice spoke of anger rather than sadness.

“We can’t let one death slow us though. We must continue.” Cassandra laid out the plan for the morning. After breakfast, she, Grace, Varric, and Solas would head out to the coast and find this Iron Bull.

That night, while Grace lay in her tent, staring at the void above her and listening to Cassandra’s soft snores, she didn’t feel the excitement she’d had before at seeing the coast. She felt guilty. She didn’t even know the soldier's name and he’d died. For her. Not directly. He’d died for the cause, but she was the reason for this cause. Sleep didn’t come easy for her that night.

*

Grace spotted the Iron Bull immediately. He couldn’t be missed, not with those horns. He wasn’t wearing armour, not that she could tell. Just cloth trousers! Not even a shirt! Massive, broad shoulders and thick arms swung an axe with a head as big as Grace’s. He spun around, completely in control of the fight, teeth bared, face etched with fury all for a second before he twisted again. Around him, blades and axes whirled, swords clashing, the acrid smell of magic wafting on the breeze. For all that, neither him nor his team seemed to be having much trouble dealing with their enemy.

“Do you think we should help?” she asked her own group. She was happy to just watch. Would prefer it, even.

In the thick of the fight, Cremisius lifted his sword in greeting. “Glad you could make it,” he yelled.

Varric shrugged and lifted his crossbow. “Bianca’s never one to be left out of a fight.”

Cassandra huffed and shoved a knife-wielding man out of the way with her shield, then stepped on his neck for good measure. Behind her, Solas gathered his magic and let loose a torrent of lightning. Cremisius’ smile had her reaching for an arrow. Unsure of exactly who was on which side, she took aim and concentrated on the robed mage rolling out from under the Iron Bull’s axe. The mage popped up and Grace fired. The arrow arched beautifully, quietly whistling, landing not on the mage, but on the Iron Bull’s shoulder.

“Bugger.”

Her arrow stuck out of his flesh. She stood there, shocked, watching as he took the weight of his axe in one hand and reached behind him with the other. He snapped the arrow off near the skin, flicked the shaft away, twisted as he lifted the axe in both hands again and brought it down on the head of the mage.

She shook too much to lift her bow again but the battle was all but over anyway. One arrow. She’d fired one bloody arrow and shot the man she was supposed to hire. Maker’s balls, how bloody embarrassing. Solas touched Grace’s arm and smiled that kind smile of his and walked past. Maybe no one else noticed. Maybe the Iron Bull would think it came from one of the Tevinters. Grace tried to hide her bow behind her and walked down the beach to where Cassandra and Varric stood at a wary distance from the qunari and his team, quietly fuming at her own idiocy.

The Iron Bull barked orders to his men before wandering over to the foursome. Maker, he was massive. Bigger than the qunari she’d seen in the Free Marches. And his horns… They were as broad as his shoulders, curving up at the ends. They’d be great for drying clothes on.

“So you’re with the Inquisition, huh?” His voice wasn’t as deep as his size implied. Rough and gravelly, but not sonorous. An eye patch covered his left eye and that just made his right eye even keener as he held her Grace’s gaze. Deep scars marred his face, the beginnings of a beard covering his cheeks and chin. The curve of his lips softened how scary he looked, which made Grace think he was perhaps kinder than his appearance let on.

Grace said nothing. Beside her, Cassandra sighed. “We _are_ the Inquisition.”

A shout from him behind him caught his attention and when he turned to yell something back, Grace saw blood oozing from his shoulder and the stump of arrow sticking out. He seemed to notice it too, pulling at his skin to investigate. He grumbled, unsheathed a small dagger and shoved it into the wound. Fresh blood weeped as he twisted. Varric gulped. Grace swallowed the sick that rose in her throat. The Iron Bull pulled the the arrowhead free, gave it a cursory glance, then held it out to Grace.

“I believe this is yours.”

“I’m sorry I shot you!” Grace blurted. “Do you want a healing vial? I have plenty.” She started rummaging around in her hip bag but the Iron Bull waved her off.

“Let’s call it an unlucky shot. We all have those. Anyway, it’s nothing my healer can’t fix.”

“Are you sure? I’m very sorry. It should’nt’ve happened. I’m supposed to be quite good with a bow.”

Cassandra sighed again and Grace heard Varric and Solas taking small steps away, as if to distance themselves from her rambling. Maker, she either said nothing at all or everything at once. She clamped her mouth shut, barely avoiding biting her tongue.

The Iron Bull tilted his head, appraising Grace. She felt like a pig at the market.

 “You’re the one they’re calling the Herald,” he said. He kept eye contact with her, not flicking his gaze down to her hand like most people did when they learned who she was. But he wasn’t told. He knew.

“I’m Grace Trevelyan. You must the The Iron Bull.” She stuck her right hand out for him and was somehow surprised that his engulfed hers entirely; warm, leathery, a little clammy but not unpleasantly so.

He smiled, lips together, not wide and toothy. It made him look like he was enjoying some private joke. “Krem,” he called, eye still on hers. “You were right. She does have nice eyes.”

Grace’s eyes went wide, so shocked she almost missed Cremisius’, “Fuck you.”

“So, did you like what you saw? Think we’d fit in with you? We’re expensive but we’re the best. Come, let’s talk.” The Iron Bull tilted his head and made his way over to a driftwood log that afforded some measure of privacy and comfort.

Grace looked to her companions for support but only got smirks from Varric and Solas and a scowl from Cassandra. Maker, why did she have to do the talking? She wasn’t the one hiring. Well, she was the one who told the advisors of Cremisius’ offer. And she was just the one with the magical hand. She turned to Cassandra and made a silent plea. Cassandra folded her arms. Fine. She’d do the talking herself, _but don’t blame me if it all turns to goat’s cheese._ She picked her way over the stones and perched against a barrel opposite the Iron Bull, waiting for him to speak. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak. _Don’t play this game with me._ _I’ll always win_. She placed her hands on her knees and smiled expectantly. If there was one thing Grace Trevelyan was good at, it was waiting for others to make the first move.

Finally, he spoke. “Okay. I guess I’ll go first. I command this company. We’re hard working and we’re trusted. We don’t break contracts. You hire us, you get the best. And you get me.” He thumbed his chest, just to emphasise who he was talking about, as if Grace didn’t know.

“Sounds wonderful. Welcome to the Inquisition.” Something about him tickled Grace’s fancy and anyway, she wanted this negotiating thing all done and dusted.

“Just like that?”

“Yes. We need help and you’re offering. Is there a catch I’m not getting?”

The Iron Bull gave her that smile again. “Funny you should mention the catch. There is one. Ever heard of the Ben Hassrath?”

Grace shook her head.

“They’re qunari spies. Well, _we’re_ qunari spies. I’ve been sent to find out what your Inquisition is up to and to send reports back to my superiors. I won’t send anything that will compromise your operation. Just enough to keep the bosses up north happy. In return I’ll share what information I get from other Ben Hassrath throughout Orlais.”

Grace beamed. “That sounds wonderful. We’ve got agents too. I’m sure Leliana will be delighted to talk with you.”  
Bull paused just long enough for Grace to get the distinct impression that what she’d just said was stupid but he didn’t give her time to dwell.

“Leliana, you say? She’s a redhead, I’m told.”

“Yes! How did you know?”

Bull stood and gave that enigmatic smile. “I know many things.”

Grace gave a polite nod and held her hand out again to seal the deal. The Iron Bull shook and called to his men while Grace returned to her companions.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Varric said, starting up the hill towards camp. Grace wasn’t entirely sure what he meant but was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. With more allies, she could head back to Haven and count this trip as a success. Let Leliana and Josephine deal with the Ben Hassrath thing. And the gold. Bugger. She didn’t ask about the cost. Well, that’s what Cassandra got for making Grace do the talking.

She fell into line behind Cassandra and Varric as the newly expanded group trudged their way up the beach towards camp. Maybe some of her cats would be waiting for her when she finally returned to Haven.

*

They’d only been on the road a couple of days, heading back to this Haven stronghold on the edge of the Frostbacks. Hadn’t encountered anything major, nothing an axe and a few arrows couldn’t sort out, but as Bull looked across the campfire to his new employer, he thought they might need a few more axes to swing. Oh, the Herald knew how to use her bow all right. Hadn’t shot him again, at least. Didn’t know how to read a battlefield though. Teaching her that could wait. He needed to know how she ticked before he’d start schooling her on the basics.

She looked so fragile, sitting there on a log with her knees drawn up, wrapped in an oilskin cloak. The firelight cast her face golden, tendrils of hair escaping from a now very loose bun. She sat alone, like the previous nights, not joining in the conversation, eyes glazed as she stared at the fire. She was certainly not the leader Bull had been expecting. The other one, the Seeker with the shield and big sword, the one with the scar on her cheek--that’s who he first thought was the leader of this merry band. But _her_ hand did not glow. She had the power to command people, but not the power to heal the sky. That privilege lay with this trusting woman with the sad eyes and delicate fingers.

Would pay to get to know her better. Besides, the others had retired to their tents and someone needed to make sure she didn’t stay outside all night.

She didn’t even notice when he stood and stretched and only gave him a brief, weak smile when he walked over to sit next to her. He sat on her left, all the better to read her with his one eye. How could a simple fire hold her attention when a qunari like the Iron Bull took up so much space right beside her?

“How’s it going, Boss?” Keep it light, conversational. Start with an open question, one she’ll reply to with a lie, probably something like ‘fine’, then needle the truth out.

“Oh. Fine. Thank you for asking.”

He’d startled her but at least her smile was genuine. So was his.

“So you’re quite happy sitting out here in the cold, freezing your tits off?”

That drew another smile from her.

“My… chest is just fine, thank you. I’d be more worried about yours, if I were you.”

Bull laughed, pleased that she could give back what he threw at her in good humour, despite her soft voice making her sound like she was half asleep. Sure, he was a little cold. But this was nothing he couldn’t handle.

“I’ve been subjected to colder things. Ice baths, ice queens, you know. Anyway, I have a thick skin, unlike you.” He half expected her to take the bait, looked like she would for a moment, lips parting to voice an objection. But she just turned her gaze back to the fire. Not defensive, then.

“You’re not really fine, are you.” He didn’t need to state the question.

“I suppose not,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t.”

Bull straightened up, held his arms wide and took in the scene, sucked in that damp forest air, a hint of sea wafting on the breeze. “Tonight couldn’t be more perfect. A roaring fire, full bellies, a cask of ale shared amongst excellent company. And no one lost an eye. Doesn’t get much better than that.” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He turned to the Herald. “But this isn’t really your scene, is it. All the trees. You’re more of a city girl.”

“I’ve spent time in the woods before,” she huffed. Ah, and there’s the defensiveness. “It’s just... I’ve seen more of them than I normally would these last few weeks. My brother used to take me hunting in the woods near home. We’d camp under the stars. Not like this,” she waved a hand at the tents and desks and pots and posts. “Just the two of us, carrying only what we needed, keeping room for the animals we’d want to bring home.”

Her eyes softened as she spoke of home, her brother. Bull had his way in.

“Well that explains why you’re so good with the bow, then. Though thanks for not shooting me again. Makes my job a lot harder if I have an arrow sticking out my shoulder.” He cut off the start of her apology with a wave of his hand. “It takes more than an arrow to bring down old Iron Bull. Tell me more about your brother. He sounds like the honorable sort.”

The Herald snorted. “If you knew my brother, you wouldn’t call him honorable. He’s a cad, don’t you doubt it. But he looks out for his little sister. Looked out for, I should say.”

“He is no more?”

“Oh I’m sure he’s still finding time to bed all the women in Ostwick while he prepares for this war. But I’m far away from him now. I’m not there.”

Home, then. She was homesick and she missed her family. Bull hadn’t called a place home in so long, perhaps ever. And qunari didn’t have family as such. But he understood the concept well enough, he needed to, in his line of work.

The Herald sighed. “I miss my Wiggles.”

Bull raised an eyebrow, took in the Herald’s wistful stare. “Your brother is called Wiggles?”

She laughed, all teeth and mirth. She was beautiful when she laughed. “No! My brother is called Sebastian. Wiggles is my cat. One of my cats.”

Oh. Well. That made more sense. “How many cats do you have?”

The Herald laughed again. “Too many, if you asked my parents. Cats are better than people, though.”

Bull listened as she regaled him with what seemed like a complete family lineage of these cats. But he followed it, mostly. Shit, he hoped there wouldn’t be a test. Her investment in these animals was… intriguing. He hadn’t seen her this animated since he’d met her. Sure, they’d only been acquainted for a few days but this was the first time her eyebrows weren’t looking so angry.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to go on. You must be bored wit--ah!.” The Herald grabbed her left hand by the wrist, the mark on her palm glowing a poisonous green.

“Does it hurt?” Bull asked.

The Herald flexed her fingers and the glowing faded away. The scar that remained, seeing it up close like that, it was kinda revolting, all puckered and blistered.

“It… tingles. Like pins and needles. But it doesn’t hurt when I touch it, for some reason. I don’t understand.” She sighed, looked away. “There’s not much I understand these days.”

Uh oh. The frown had returned, that lost look dampening those bright eyes that Bull had just so recently become acquainted with.

“Ah, such a pity. That glowing hand trick could earn you some good coin. Or, you know, keep yourself entertained when you’re alone. Either works.” Bull shrugged, all nonchalance but he watched her carefully to see if he’d overstepped the mark.

Her attention snapped to him, eyes wide, lips parted. Then she broke into a grin and slapped his arm.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said. “Varric’s the only comic relief I have, though he doesn’t seem to be with us entirely by choice. It’s… complicated.”

Wasn't that the truth. They fell into a companionable silence, just the embers spitting and trees rustling. Somewhere far away a wolf howled.

“Iron Bull,” the Herald said. “This might sound silly given that I’ve just met you and that you’re also a spy, but... would you consider being my bodyguard? I wouldn't want to put out the Chargers if they needed you.”

“Nah, Krem can look after the guys just fine. But you think you need a bodyguard, huh?” He was surprised she didn't have one already but he didn't let her know that.

“It would be nice. When I was in Val Royeaux--You're just, you're very big and scary and--I'm sorry. I don't mean to insult you.” she pursed her lips.

“Hey, big and scary? That's a compliment.” He grinned and she smiled too.

“It's just, Cassandra is usually with me and Maker knows people think twice when she's around. But she's not always around, so…” She turned away and sighed. “Never mind. It was just an idea.”

“Yeah, it's a good idea. I've done frontline work before, usually for nobles wanting to make an impression at parties. Worked for an Orlesian once--one of the smart ones. He feared qunari enough to respect me, knew I was more than the lumbering ox most Orlesians see us as. He asked me to be his eyes and ears at a soiree. I got to eat all I wanted and all I had to do was follow him around listening to conversations while looking dumb.”

“And you didn't mind being treated like that?”

“Nah. There was free food! Anyway, he didn't know that I was Ben Hassrath, so whatever intel I gathered for him, I also gathered for us.”

The Herald was quiet, lips twisting in concentration. “Maybe you shouldn't be my bodyguard then.”

Bull shrugged. “Your choice, Boss. At least you know who I really am. If it makes any difference, I would've tried to get in with you even if I hadn't been told to. That hole in the sky spitting out demons affects everyone and I _really_ don't like demons.” He paused. “Your Inquisition is doing good work. I like doing good work, too.”

“It's not my Inquisition,” she muttered.

Not for the first time, Bull saw how vulnerable she was. “Hey, we can talk it over on the road. Right now we need to sleep.” Bull stood, holding his hand out for the Herald. She reached out and he pulled her up. “Don’t worry, Herald. With the Iron Bull and the Chargers at your back, you’ll sort this mess out in no time.”

“I hope so. But please. I’m not the Herald. I’m just Grace.”

“Whatever you say, Grace.”

Ah, there was that smile again. He could get used to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Bull's POV on their first meeting, see here:   
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/9884570


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace receives a letter from home. The Chargers and the Iron Bull settle into Haven and make a few friends. Cassandra gets angry.

Grace closed the door to her cabin with a soft click. She stored her bow and quiver, sat on the bed and started to unlace the first boot. She’d need new string for the bow and she’d need to fletch more arrows. Her glove would need some stitching too. All that could wait until tomorrow. Right now, she just needed to take off all her clothes and climb into a steaming hot bath. She eased the first boot off and wiggled her toes. They ached with freedom, then tingled as she peeled off her sock. She threw the sock towards the basket in the corner when her eye caught on something on the desk. A letter; rolled and unrolled, crumpled and smoothed out. The wax had been broken. It must have come by raven and boat, and raven again. There on the front, in the looping cursive of her brother, read ‘Grace Trevelyan. Care of The Inquisition, Haven, Frostback Mountains, Ferelden.’

She held the letter in both hands, delicately like it was a clutch of rare eggs or a fragile bloom. Her fingers trembled and for reasons she didn’t understand but made her angry anyway, she started crying. A cat wandered past, purring loudly and rubbing himself against her leg. She looked down, gave Wiggles II a quick pat. He nosed her back.

“Yes. You’re right. We can’t read it here.” She pulled her boot on again, shrugged on her coat, grabbed a handful of dried nug livers from the tin on the shelf, and slipped out the door, around the back of her hut, and up to the chantry, taking a route where she wouldn’t be seen.

Once she had sat down and Wiggles II had made himself comfortable on her lap, Grace took out the letter. She wouldn’t be the first to know what was written. Leliana would have read it. Josephine, too probably. Half of bloody Haven properly knew what Sebastian had to say. Maker, he better not have written anything rude.

She unfolded the letter carefully, lest she rip the already creased paper. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dropping on the page. The ink started to run so she held the letter away and wiped her face with her sleeve. She held it above her head and looked up so she couldn’t cry on it any more.

_Dearest Gracie,_

_A thousand kisses and a thousand more. Thank the Maker you’re alive! I heard about what happened at the Temple from Sister Michelle, you know her. The one with the crooked nose. She was to be there, you know, but got caught up with bandits or storms. I wasn’t really listening. She said the whole place went up, sucked into that hole in the sky. We can see it from here! Knight Commander Gressier wouldn’t let me leave. He said it was too dangerous and there wouldn’t be anything for me anyway. So here I was, the only Trevelyan left. I dare say I shed a tear. But you’re still here! And you’re… a prophet? A soothsayer? What are you? No matter, you’re still my sister._

_After word spread of the Divine’s death, the Circle really fell. Literally. The tower came down. Some said it was an act of Andraste freeing the mages once and for all. Others said it was sabotage. I don’t know what to believe. I’m doing my best to keep the peace though. Not all the mages ran away and not all the templars have gone crazy. Those of us who just want everything to be okay have stayed put. I’m helping the best I can, looking after the young ones. I can’t leave them, Gracie. They need me. I know you need me too, Maker_ I _need you. Just, close the hole in the sky and come back soon, please?_

_Your loving brother,_

_Bassy._

Grace let the letter hang from her fingers before Wiggles II batted it away and sat down on Grace’s lap. Only once her body had gone numb and she’d started shivering uncontrollably did she stagger to her feet and back down to her cabin.

*

Morning came with a knock on her door. She had been summoned. The messenger stated that the advisors wanted to officially meet the newly recruited Iron Bull and since the Herald of Andraste had done the work, she should be the one to introduce him. She set her jaw and said she’d be there shortly.

With a passing glance at the table and Bassy’s letter, Grace grabbed her cloak and wrapped herself up. The Iron Bull stood outside, his meaty arms crossed against his massive chest. He still hadn’t put on a shirt. He didn’t look cold though.

“Morning, Boss,” he said. Boss. Grace wasn’t sure she liked that. “I got the same message as you. Still want to have me as your guard? No hard feelings if you’d rather hand me and the boys over to Cullen.”

“No,” Grace said, surprised with her firmness. “I haven’t changed my mind. You… they’re scary up there. You might have to help me, if it all gets too much.”

“No problem, Boss. I’m good with my tongue.” He smirked, eye crinkling as he looked down at her.

Grace turned that over in her mind as they started walking to the Chantry but with people still gawking at her whenever she passed, she couldn’t concentrate. Anyway, something Bull had said at their first meeting had stuck in her mind and she couldn’t shake it. They’d only spoken a handful of times on the journey to Haven but each time Grace felt like she was at home talking, if not to Bassy, then a good friend. An old friend. Bull was neither, yet he’d fallen into place so easily, like Solas in a way. But though Solas and Varric, and even Cassandra had found their places in Grace’s new life, they felt separated, distant, like their connection hadn’t quite been made. Sera was just as out of place as Grace was and while that could have been something to bond over, it wasn’t. Sera was careful, cagy. She had her agenda but it wasn’t the same as Grace’s. But Bull, he’d seemed genuinely interested to hear about the cats Grace had left behind and the sea sickness she’d encountered. He shared her sadness at the unnecessary deaths of both animals and people while explaining that as hard as it was, some people needed to die for their own good. Varric and Cassandra had said pretty much the same thing, but coming from Bull, Grace believed him. Yes, he’d fitted in so easily and Grace couldn’t be happier with having him as her personal guard.

They reached the door to the war room; Bull stopped Grace before she opened it.

“Remember to use the article. Makes me sound like a weapon. That’s what you need me to be.”

Grace nodded and pushed the door open.

*

“This is the Iron Bull,” Grace announced. “He’s going to be my personal guard.” Grace tried to puff out her chest, make her decision sound definite and strong. Her legs trembled and her heart beat too fast. The advisors’ expressions ran from amused to horrified.

The Iron Bull nodded once. “Hey, how’s it going.”

Cullen gave a curt nod and turned to Grace. “Lady Herald, I was under the impression you had gone to the Storm Coast to see the Bull’s Chargers in action, and if you judged them worthy, you would hire them,” Cullen said. He was the one who looked most horrified.

“That’s what I did,” Grace hedged, unsure as to what Cullen was getting at.

“We have our own soldiers, ones trained as personal guards. While having your own is a worthy idea, it would be best to have someone from our own ranks.” He glanced from Grace to Bull and back again. “He’s also a qunari.”

“Hey,” Bull said. He sounded offended, but like he wasn’t really offended. “Qunari make great personal guards. As do mercs. I’m not about to let the person who pays me die, right? Makes collecting the coin a little difficult.”

“You are correct on both points,” Leliana said. “But what of your ties to the qun? You are not Tal Vashoth. You answer to your betters in Par Vollen. What would you say to them, hmm, as the Herald's bodyguard?”

Grace looked up at the Iron Bull, interested in the answer to that question herself. He didn’t look annoyed or angry. He had a faint smile on his face.

“I won’t send any reports until you’ve had a chance to look them over first,” he said.

“Oh how lovely! Your Ben-Hassrath reports, written in qunlat and probably coded,” Leliana replied. Even Grace caught the sarcasm.

The start of a frown pulled on Bull’s brows. “You want transparency, I get it. How’s this for transparency. You got trouble brewing in Lydes. They’ve been without a ruler for months now, you know that much. And you know the three most likely contenders. This is your chance to pull a few strings, get who you want in power. Choose the right person and you’ll have an ear to the Empress. Who to choose though? I know your people don’t know their secrets. Only my people know that shit because we’re the only ones with people in all three sides.” He rattled off the names along with advantages of disadvantages of the three potential heirs. “I have access to that and more. I’m not here to convert and I’m not an advance guard. I’m here to observe and report. And drink and eat and kill demons and watch your Herald, generally have a great time. So how about it, you gonna let me have a good time?”

The advisors made a murmur of agreement but Cullen looked ready to press the personal guard issue again. Grace spoke up before he could.

“Him being qunari works to our advantage. People will think twice before trying to hurt me if they see him with me.” She stepped closer to him, to emphasise his size and to show that she’d made up her mind.

Cullen put his hands on his hips. “Very well. We’ll see how this goes.”

The Iron Bull laughed with his whole body and in doing so, nearly knocked Grace off her feet. “That’s great, Cullen, that’s great. Glad to be on board.” He put his hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Come on, Boss. Let’s get a drink. If I’m going to be your front line man, then we should get to know each other better.” He lead her out of the war room without a second glance, and for that, she was grateful.

She was less grateful when he led her straight to the tavern.

“You weren’t joking about the drinking, were you,” she said as Flissa brought over two flagons. Grace was sure they were bigger than her head. “It’s still morning!”

“Your beer is one of the only things the South has going for it,” he replied. “So, Boss. What did you want to talk about?”

Grace startled. “Me? You’re the one who brought me here. I was going to go--” she stopped herself before giving away her secret location. “I was going to return to my cabin. I think you’re the one with questions.” Something about the Iron Bull made her tongue loose. It wasn’t the beer, that was for certain: she’d barely had a chance to touch it.

Bull tipped his head. “Nah, you’ve got questions. May as well ask them since we’re going to be working together.”

Grace frowned. He sat opposite her, body shielding her from the gaze of most of the tavern, his expression open. She considered for a moment that he was a spy, and that maybe, like Josephine, he had been taught to be so nice so as to extract information from his target. She considered the thought, then dismissed it.

“What did you mean about not being Tal-Vashoth? Do you know Kirkwall? It’s a Free Marches city. The qunari were there for a while--this is a few years ago now--but not all of them stayed in Kirkwall. Some came as far as Ostwick and they called themselves Tal-Vashoth and not to worry but people were still scared anyway.”

“Woah, slow down. I know you had questions, but one at a time, huh?”

Grace blushed and fidgeted with her flagon.

“First off, Tal-Vashoth should always make you worry. They are deserters, qunari who have left the qun. They are dangerous, devoid of purpose and reason. Technically, they’re not even qunari anymore. They’re just Tal-Vashoth.” He spat the word like ridding a bad taste from his mouth. “Second, yeah, I know Kirkwall. Total shit show, that one. Heard a few stories about it. I was in Seheron at the time and if something has gone to shit worse than Seheron, then you know that it’s bad. But the Tal-Vashoth you met in the Free Marches were nothing compared to the guys there.” He took a long drink and Grace watched his throat as he swallowed gulp after gulp of beer. He set the mug down and smacked his lips. “I’m not Tal-Vashoth shit, but that’s my cover. People aren’t going to hire someone who follows the qun.”

“But you told _me_ you were with the qun.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a big deal. You,” he waved his hand to indicate Grace, “And all this. Wouldn’t’ve taken Red more than five minutes to figure out who I was and kick my ass across the Waking Sea. Better to be upfront sometimes. The crap me and my boys usually do? That’s small fry. This, this is saving the world.”

Grace wasn’t sure she understood but she didn’t want to ask any more questions lest she appear stupid. Plus he kept talking about his boys but there were girls in his band, too. Or women. Men and women. No children, she didn’t think.

“Most people south of Rivain don’t know what a real Tal-Vashoth is like. They don’t know what a qunari is like either, but they have their own ideas. Big, scary, and destructive. Converting everyone in sight and killing those that don’t fall in line. We don’t kill people unless we have to. That’s a big thing in the qun. Everyone, _everyone_ , has a purpose. Killing is a waste and a last resort. So because no one in Orlais is going to hire the guy with the horns if they think he’s gonna cleave them in half with his axe because of what he is, I pretend to be the guy with the horns whose gonna cleave them in half if they don’t pay the bill. Works out pretty nice.” He peered into Grace’s mug. “You gonna finish that?” Grace shook his head and he grabbed the mug in his big hand and downed it.

That made sense and it matched what she’d read in The Tale of the Champion. She smiled to herself and nodded. Bull called Flissa for more drinks, getting another beer and a wine for Grace.

“Didn’t think you were a beer drinker,” Bull said sounding apologetic. “Should’ve got you wine in the first place. My bad.”

Flissa brought the drinks, set them down and left with a thanks from Bull. Grace went wide-eyed at her drink. She grabbed the glass and took a long inhale. Bull chuckled.

“Read you right this time.”

Grace stared at him. “How did you know?”

Bull smiled. “Ben-Hassrath.”

Grace smiled back. She took a sip of her wine and found herself back home for the harvest ball. Casks overflowing with sharp, dry wine. Sweet strawberries on the tongue and drying hay on the air. She’d been here in Haven for a couple of months and hadn’t even known that they had this wine stocked. Then, she’d not come to the tavern that much, either.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Any time, Boss.”

Grace smiled into her wine. Haven just got warmer.

*

Bull ambled over to Cullen’s training ground just after lunch. The soldiers and Templars had taken up a mostly flat section outside Haven’s walls. Probably used to be a field. By this time of day it was muddy and slushy. The soldiers practicing their shield bashes and lunges slipped but Cullen wouldn’t allow them any slack for that.

“There’s no such thing as perfect fighting conditions!” he yelled. “Get used to it! Bend your knees, adjust your weight.” He shouted out commands whenever he saw fit, ignoring the actual trainer who also shouted commands. Nice guy. Experienced, strong, talented. Stubborn too. But Bull suspected that under all that fur and armour there was a very different man. He looked like the kind of guy who’d been through shit and surviving hadn’t necessarily been better than dying. Bull could empathise with a guy like that.

He gave a lazy wave as he worked his way through the knot of trainees. “Hey, Commander.”

Cullen looked up with a frown, gave an order to his lieutenant with a flick of the wrist, and beckoned Bull over. He lead Bull out to the edge of the training ground, hand on the pommel of his sword like any of these dummies might launch an attack at any moment. He stopped and turned to face Bull.

“I wanted to discuss your position within the Inquisition,” Cullen said.

“Right. Personal guard duty. And the Chargers? Cremisius is a good second-in-command. He can lead the boys as well as I. They’re yours to direct.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Iron--the Iron Bull.” Cullen shifted his weight and Bull sensed his discomfort but appreciated the effort to fix his error. “You should know that I remain unconvinced as to the appropriateness of you being the Herald’s bodyguard, especially since you’re here on Par Vollen’s orders. I want to make this very clear. You answer to me. You do as I say. You write up reports to me just like any other captain. Until I can trust you--and I doubt you will ever be in a position to earn my trust--know that I will be watching you very closely. If anything happens to the Herald, it will be on your head.”

“Didn’t expect the shovel talk from you.” To Bull’s delight, Cullen’s cheeks bloomed a soft pink. “Hey, I got it. This is serious business. For what it’s worth, Par Vollen are pissing themselves over that hole up there. You know what we’re like with magic, but I’m not here to push an agenda. I’m here to see how you’re gonna fix that thing. You don’t trust me? Shit, I don’t blame you. Kirkwall was a mess.”

Cullen’s expression hardened. “You know all about Kirkwall, do you? Were you there when the qunari left their compound and rampaged through the streets, killing indiscriminately? Women and children--” He took a sharp breath. “Did you see the Arishok chop off the head of the Viscount in cold blood?”  
  
Bull didn’t have the heart to say that where he was at that time, he was witness to acts like that on a daily basis. But Cullen wasn’t from Seheron, an island that had known nothing but conflict. He was from a city and cities were supposed to be safe. He was supposed to keep the city safe. Instead, Bull said, “You didn’t hear this from me, but the Arishok fucked up. Sure, official word said something like he acted outside the bounds of the qun and blah blah blah,” Bull made yapping gestures with his hands. “All that killing? Shouldn’t’ve have happened. We don’t kill like that. He must have ordered the slaughter. The antaam don’t think for themselves. They act on orders and the orders were crap. Technically he did act outside the bounds of the qun, but he didn’t think that was what he was doing. As far as he was concerned, he died serving the qun.”

Bull watched that sink in. Cullen stared pensively out over Haven’s frozen lake. His curly hair caught the breeze and ruffled. Hey, if it weren’t for the gory conversation, this could almost be romantic!

“What’s done is done. The past can’t be changed.” Cullen said eventually. “I can control what happens now.”

“Really?” Bull asked flatly.

Cullen snorted, a self-deprecating reaction. “Well, no, I guess you’re right. What I mean is, my position as commander of the Inquisition’s forces affords me no small power and I will not abuse the trust of those under me. That includes the Herald. I need to know that you have her best interests at heart when you say you will be her guard.”

“Come with me,” Bull said, walking back to Haven. “You committed to this place? Because it’s shit for defence. That wall will do okay keeping children out but enemies? Over there, the trees are growing too close. People can just climb them and jump over. There’s a bank of snow past the stables that gets bigger and bigger as people shovel the path. It’s hard packed. Wouldn’t take much to use it as a boost over. You got all sorts of people coming and going, in and out and you have no idea who they are or what they’re doing here.” They walked through the village. “You want to know how I’d protect the Herald? I’d move her out of that shack for a start. Anyone could set fire to that thatch or lob a rock through the window. You got a guard on the door but can you trust him? Your rotation is already off. Look into Corporal Staines, or get Red to. Might want to take him off duty before tonight, anyway. Stick her in the chantry. Sure, she’d be in a room with only one exit but at least the walls won’t come down around her. Got a taster for her? Or any of you? She’s your biggest asset so you can’t afford to lose her. You guys can be replaced but it would be a pain in the ass so keeping your guts in your insides is to everyone’s benefit.” Bull went on, asking what they knew about her skills, if she could use a knife or her fists if she had to. If they’d run through kidnap scenarios, prepared her for the worst. Did she know the tastes various poisons could impart in food or water or drink?

Cullen gaped, interjected at times, frowned a lot. “Leliana has most of that under control,” he said quietly.

Bull continued his tour of Haven, pointing out weak defences, spots that could be exploited. Finally, the pair stood outside the doors to the chantry in afternoon light. Cullen stood straight, hand still on his pommel. He let go to present his hand to Bull. Bull took it and shook.

“I stand corrected, the Iron Bull,” Cullen said with a single nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some defences to sure up.”

The pair exchanged a smile and Cullen marched into the chantry. Bull let out a low whistle and looked around. The boys would still be training. May as well join them.

No such luck. The hot spy master intercepted him, directing him to follow her with a curt nod. Her nondescript tent opposite the chantry was barely high enough to accommodate him. He stood hunched, knowing that he appeared less intimidating this way and was annoyed for it.

He was also annoyed at what turned out to be a two hour long grilling over the Tevinters he’d been fighting when the Herald’s party had found him. He told her what he knew, admitted what he didn’t, and left nothing out. His tenure with the Inquisition depended on Nightingale more than anyone else. Josephine may pay the bills, and the Boss wanted him on side, but if Nightingale wanted him gone, he’d be gone--with or without his head.

He interrupted her as she questioned him again on the source of the Tevinter boat.

“Listen, Red. We’ve got a saying in the Ben-Hassrath. Best translation is, ‘don’t shit a bull shitter.’ You and me? We’re both professionals. I’m playing nice here. How about you afford me the same courtesy.”  
“This isn’t an alliance, the Iron Bull. You work for _me_ and _I_ control the flow of information.”

Bull thought for a moment on what the qun would have to say about that. Some metaphor about rivers not running in two directions and boulders standing in the flow, blah blah blah. He needed a drink, not a lecture.

“Technically, I work for the Herald,” he said, knowing that she probably knew that technical truths were the best, if not most annoying, truths. “Not you.”

Leliana gave him a withering glare that he interpreted as his sign to leave.

Outside the tent he stood up straight, pulling his shoulders back. His joints popped, pleasantly relieving the strain from his muscles. Damn, he shouldn’t’ve been so short with her. She had every reason to be suspicious of a qunari among the ranks. And she was right of course. She had no reason to share her information with him. Luck had landed the Herald in his lap. He’d’ve gotten the Chargers in one way or another. That the Boss had taken an immediate liking to both him and Krem was a bonus that just happened to have worked in his favour.

He thought about the river metaphor again, how he shouldn’t fight the flow by trying to wade upstream. He was more of a fallen tree, catching eddies of information amongst his branches and casting his own knowledge out on his leaves.

He judged the time by the position of the sun, let his attention be caught by the breach for only a moment. The Chargers would be done for the day. With his mind made up to write a report, he set off towards his own tent, only to be intercepted by Josephine.

“Ataas shokra,” he muttered as he followed her into the chantry. _Glorious struggle._

*

Cassandra stood alone in the war room. She leant against the table, palms flat, eyes flicking between Val Royeaux in Orlais and Denerim in Ferelden. They lay at opposite sides of southern Thedas but could not be more close in their hack-handed replies to the Inquisition’s request for favour. If she stared at the markers hard enough, then she might be able to divine what the rulers of both countries were thinking. She could have no such luck: the capitals were marked with red-baubles, not crystal balls.

She did have insight into both monarchs’ thoughts--their official ones. The most recent missive from Empress Celene lay beside her left hand, crinkled from when she’d screwed it up in frustration. Queen Anora’s letter had not suffered the same fate but the desire was there all the same.

If she couldn’t count on the assistance or even allegiance of Thedas’ leaders, then maybe she could count on a hero. If only a hero was so easily found.

She looked at the caves marked hear the Storm Coast and the entrances to the deep roads. She had searched them all. Not personally, but perhaps she should have. Neither her own agents nor Leliana’s had returned with a scrap of detail on the whereabouts of Hawke. Every lead had led to a dead end. Some felt suspiciously like she’d been thrown off the trail, as if Varric had tipped them off and told them to send anyone looking for Hawke in the opposite direction. Someone, somewhere, had to know where she was.

At this point, Cassandra wasn’t even sure what she would do if she found Hawke. The search had taken up so much of her time and energy that she had become confused with the drive to find her. She could help, Cassandra knew she could. And until the Herald had stepped out of the Fade, Hawke was the only person Cassandra had any faith in for saving them. The Herald could close rifts, and was their only hope for sealing the breach, but she could not unite people. Not like Hawke.

Cassandra made a note to send a party back to Kirkwall. Maybe with Varric out of the city, Hawke’s protection would be weakened. In the meantime she had plenty to do. Like stew over the letters from Celene and Anora.

How charitable for Empress Celene to grant the Inquisition permission to enter Orlais to close the rifts that had opened there. Like she could stop anyone crossing into her borders. They were barely policed. The fool woman had allowed herself to get dragged into a civil war with her cousin. He was even more fool than her. Their petty, local squabble threatened the stability of Orlais at a time when the world was being torn apart. Just like the chantry. Could she not see the danger she was in? That they were all in? Why start this now? And then to use the excuse of war to deny the Inquisition aid. Cassandra seethed. She had not expected the politics to be this bad, but after witnessing Val Royeaux and the Chantry finally falling, the Templars leaving the order, she should not be surprised.

Queen Anora of Ferelden was no better. Though still young, she had long since consolidated her power. Ferelden had recovered from the blight that had ravaged the land ten years ago and yet they could do no more to aid the Inquisition in sealing the breach than Celene. At least Anora had granted apostates sanctuary in the small town of Redcliffe--far away from the capital of Denerim, Cassandra noted. That was more than what Celene had done. Whether Redcliffe's Arl had initially granted a few apostates refuge and others, upon hearing about it, clambered to join their fellow mages, Cassandra did not know. Redcliffe would be the Inquisition’s next stop, if only they could get word into the town. Communications had been patchy at best, even from Leliana's agents. None of this bode well for the Inquisition or, more importantly, the breach.

For all the uselessness of the major southern counties, the Free Marches proved refreshingly accommodating. Starkhaven had pledged its allegiance, offering templars and Mothers. Ostwick, too had aligned with the Inquisition. No doubt because of the Herald's familial connections and Josephine’s vague promises of reward, but Cassandra wasn’t prepared to be cynical towards those who offered aid. Wycome, too agreed support.

Even Orzammar, deep underground, had made contact with the Inquisition. They offered the Inquisition lyrium for its templars and mages. Not directly of course, but through back channels and convoluted talk that made Cassandra’s head ache trying to decipher. That, at least, was one less thing to have to worry about.

For the moment, she could concentrate her efforts on the Herald and keeping her alive. She would return to the issue of Hawke later.

*

Bull reclined on a cloth chair outside his tent, Krem and a couple of the boys beside him. Flissa had been kind enough to provide them with glass jugs from the Singing Maiden so they could drink from their casks from the comfort of their own camp. They looked out over the snowy, muddy grounds of Haven, attention lazily held by Commander Cullen giving his men a lesson in how to hold a sword.

“They’re not very good, are they,” said Dalish.

“They’re just recruits. Give them a break,” Stitches replied

Every day, templars, well, ex-templars now, flocked to Haven, pledging to give up their orders and serve the fledgling Inquisition instead. Farmers, too. Those who’d been kicked off their land by the Orlesian civil war, or had had their homes and fields burned to the ground by rebel templars and apostates. Families fleeing the war, fathers wanting to pick up a sword and defend their children, mothers who just wanted to keep their children safe. And Bull had the perfect view of it all right from his tent.

Cullen did a good job, coming down and engaging with people as he could. Bull suspected he sympathised with the ex-templars more than the farmers though. Wonder where they got their lyrium from. Some would want to quit, but most wouldn’t be capable of that. There’d be chaos in the ranks if they all went cold turkey. Cullen even joined in the sparring, shucking his fur coat to swing a blunt sword with the rest of them. He had good form. Wouldn’t mind going a round or two with him.

Bull watched as Cullen thrust with his shield and then parried with his sword. He nudged Krem with his elbow.

“Look familiar?” he asked.

Krem gave a one shoulder shrug. “His action you mean?” Krem watched Cullen practice the move again. “All I’m seeing is a pretty face.”  
  
Bull smirked. Krem wasn’t wrong on that count. “It’s the shield,” he said, pointing. “He angles it down. Deflects magic that way. We do the same thing when we fight Vints. C’mon Krem. You should’ve spotted that one.”

Krem gave another lazy shrug. “I never got a chance to fight you lot.”

“Probably for the best,” Bull replied. “You’d’ve fought your way to the gates of Qunandar before we could’ve cut you down.” Krem snorted at the praise but Bull knew the nugget of truth in his big talk. Krem would have been wasted in Tevinter. Just as well Bull crossed paths with him when he did.

“I’d just go in over his head,” Dalish said in her sing song voice.

Bull leant forward in his chair, elbow on his knee, and levelled her with a glare. “You’ve always been considered an apostate but I don’t want the Chargers to attract any unwanted attention, so please, keep it subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.

Bull sighed and leant back. Whether Dalish was yanking his chain or whether she really didn’t think the fireballs that shot out of her staff were magic, Bull didn’t know. Little loose in the head, that one. Good fighter, no doubt. Followed orders but still. Odd bird. The Chargers wouldn’t be the same without her.

Out the corner of his eye, he spotted a lanky elf with a bad haircut walking by.

“Hey, Sera!” Bull called. She turned, eyes narrow. “Come, have a drink,” he said, getting in before she could say her customary ‘what’.

She wandered over, still suspicious but trying to cover it with a jaunty walk. He poured a mug from the cask beside him and handed it over while Rocky procured another chair for her. She sniffed at the mug, tilted her head with a little all-right-then, and knocked the whole mug back. Bull laughed, roared, slapping his knee before pouring her another.

“Ah, Sera. You could be a Charger with skills like that!”

She grinned back, all wide and toothy. “Pft. Yeah right. Like I’d want to do… whatever it is you do. Fluff for nobles or something, right?”

“I hear you know a thing or two about bees,” Rocky said, leaning forward. Any further forward and he’d be falling off his chair. “Hear you’ve weaponised them.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, I was thinking that maybe you and me could team up, swap tips. I’ve got this great mix. It’s like tar. You chuck it, or plant it, and when it gets shot with a flaming arrow, or a mage’s fireball--”

“Not that we know any mages,” Dalish sing-songed.

“BOOM!” Rocky cackled, slopping his ale all over his lap.

Sera just looked disgusted. “Too complicated. Just shove the bees in a jar and chuck it. No fuss.”

“What do you do with the honey?” Dalish asked. “You must be very sweet, what with all that honey.” Ah, there was the Dalish Bull knew, chin on hand, all lusty eyed as she stared at Sera.

Sera just giggled nervously. Sipping on her ale. Sipping, this time. Not gulping. Bull filed that little nervous tick away in his mental Ben Hassrath folder. She stuck around though, and the band got talking, all that ale loosening up their tongues. Bull kept the questions light and easy, veering off when she got defensive. Like, when Dalish asked her where she was from. “Around” was hardly an answer, but then Grim was from Around too. And Dalish, come to think of it.

“What do you think of the Herald?” He watched for her reaction without making it obvious.

“She’s alright I suppose. Bit plain looking. I thought heroes were supposed to be, you know, heroic. She’s just a woman. Pretty all right, but a bit plain. Makes me wonder though, if she became this big hero just from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, then that could’ve happened to any of us, right? Stupid,” she muttered into her mug.

Skinner got in next. First words she’d spoken in a while.

“You are a friend of Red Jenny,” she said, twisting a knife in her hand. Really, they’d spoken about this. She never listened though. At least Sera wasn’t a shem.

“Is that supposed to be a question?” Sera asked, with a hint of aggression.

Skinner merely tilted her head and shrugged.

“So what if I am?” Sera said. Defensive now.

“You people do good work. Sometimes.” Now there was a story. Maybe if Skinner told it, Sera wouldn’t be so hostile. She wouldn't though. And it wasn’t Bull’s to tell. Sera, at least, seemed pleased.

As Cullen’s troops finished up their practice for the day and the sun dipped close to the horizon, Bull shivered. Wouldn’t be cold in the tavern. Flissa would have the fires roaring and the ale flowing. With a call of “horns up!” Bull rallied the troops and they marched off to the Singing Maiden to continue the drinking.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery , a kiss, a rift, and a dragon

If the Iron Bull was to be the Herald’s bodyguard, then they would need to learn how each other worked. Their trip from the Storm Coast to Haven had been child’s play. The wildlife barely a threat. Cassandra, for one, wanted to know how he and she would fight together, if he would complement or be a hindrance to her. Their sparring had led her to believe that he would be useful, but that was only practice. And he needed a horse. He’d snorted at that, said that horses didn’t come in qunari size. A few words to Master Dennett fixed that problem.

The Iron Bull whistled, hands on his hips. The beast Dennett had found stood taller than this giant of a qunari. It had black eyes and held its head high. “I gotta admit, Seeker. I’ve never ridden a horse. Eaten one, sure. But this is… I’m not used to being the one doing the riding.”

The horse did not budge when the Iron Bull made his first attempt to climb on. Cassandra watched with an impassive scowl. Dennett muttered and fussed, pulling straps here and there.

“Shit, the view’s great up here!” He sounded like a child on his nameday.

Then the horse moved, just a little, and Cassandra saw what looked like fear in the qunari’s eye. He composed himself quickly, hands relaxing on the reins as Dennett got the horse walking in a placid circle. The Iron Bull had better adjust soon. She would test his mettle by taking a small group on an extended tour of Northern Ferelden. They would travel all the way to the coast, then head east. They would not go so far as Amaranthine, but would head inland at Highever, skirt up the western side of Lake Calenhad and see what they could of Redcliffe. All the while they would be championing the Inquisition’s cause. There would only be the four of them: Cassandra, Solas, the Herald, and the Iron Bull. They would stop at Inquisition camps, meet the loyal soldiers and improve morale. That should be all they needed to break the Iron Bull into his role.

“Does he have a name?” the Iron Bull called.

“Crusher.” Dennett replied.

The Iron Bull threw his head back and laughed. “Crusher! Damn, that’s good.”

Dennett’s lesson continued, the Iron Bull paying close attention and following Dennett’s instructions to the letter. The qunari was an odd addition, Cassandra admitted. Odder than Sera even. He at least spoke plainly. But a spy. A _qunari_ spy no less. Cassandra smiled ruefully. What would Justina have said, knowing the group Cassandra was rallying? She would have approved. She would have trusted Cassandra and Leliana to do what they thought was right for Thedas. And if that meant admitting a qunari into their ranks, and allowing him access to their most valuable asset, so be it.

The Iron Bull looked to be getting the hang of riding. At least until the horse whinnied and made off at a trot, carrying his rider across the frozen ground. Dennett shouted instructions to slow the horse and within moments the Iron Bull had him under control. Cassandra could not help but be impressed. The Iron Bull rode the horse back to where Cassandra stood and grinned down at her. Only he panted. The horse looked bored.

“This shit is great! If we had horses like this in Par Vollen, the south wouldn’t stand a chance!” the Iron Bull said.

“That is hardly comforting,” Cassandra replied.

“Nah, I’m kidding. Couldn’t get the beresaad on horses. They’d all shit themselves. So. When do we head out?”

They would head out once Dennett was content with the Iron Bull’s skill, and from his expression, that wouldn’t be long.

*

Shit, this horse riding was great! Sitting up high, watching the world go by, even if at the moment the world only consisted of Haven’s barren frozen hills. But still, they’d be out on the road tomorrow and Bull couldn’t wait for Crusher to do the walking while Bull sat around. Not that horse riding was like relaxing on a comfortable chair with a jug of ale in hand. No, the whole business turned out to be more active than he’d thought it’d be. Sore on the ass, too. Left him walking like he’d spent the morning, afternoon, and whole night with three tamassanras and saartoh nehrappan. Pity he wasn’t left feeling the same way.

Once he and Crusher had developed a good working relationship, Bull found that his mind wandered, his thoughts slipping into the rhythm of his riding, the syllables matching the clip-clop and lur-lurch lur-lurch. He could mull over ideas, develop theories, plan reports. That was another difference between riding a horse and riding a cock--flesh or otherwise; time to think.

Throwing his leg over a hulking great woman wearing a leather wrapped rod who hurt and soothed in equal measure made him not think about anything at all. That was the point of those sessions; to block out the world, to not even be able to form a thought. To hand himself over, body and mind, to someone else who could think for him. He hadn't needed a fuck like that in a long time. These days he was the one in control, dealing out the pleasure. Hey, and anyway, being reminded that this was how his partners usually felt after riding him was pretty damn good.

He kicked Crusher into a trot, eager to find someone for a little afternoon delight now that he’d spent the last few minutes thinking about sex. He moved his weight like Dennett had taught him. His thighs protested but that was too bad. He’d get used to this riding soon enough. As he trotted through the trees, shouts and cheers caught on the breeze. Just Cullen’s trainees, probably. Or Krem running drills. Haven was just around this point.

The earth thudded, vibrated. Damn, up on top of Crusher, Bull couldn’t feel the ground the same. Whatever it was could be big but far away, or small and closer. A flash of brown through the trees caught his attention, had him on edge until a laugh followed the snapping of twigs and swishing of snow falling off branches. Then another flash--black this time, and another laugh. Both female. The thundering died away along with the voices. Now that piqued Bull’s interest. He trotted up to the edge of the trees. Hoof prints scuffed the snow. But whose were they and where were they going? Away from Haven, that much was clear. Nothing like a little mystery to get Bull’s juices flowing. No choice but to follow, really.

The horses had been galloping but Bull didn't want to follow that fast. For one he was still kinda scared that he'd fall off, or that Crusher would toss him, or that he'd smack straight into a low hanging branch and lose his head. But he was more concerned about the noise he'd make. He hadn't been with Crusher long enough to train him to tiptoe through the forest. Not like Grace and Faith. Those two were made for each other. Gentle and quiet, delicate and deliberate.

He followed the trail to the edge of the forest and stopped. Listened, felt. Just the wind rustling through trees. The trail continued up the hill but that way lead to a dead end valley. No trees, not even a frozen stream up there. Just a sheer wall of ice. Nothing there that anyone could be interested in. Unless the appeal was something other than the natural formation of rocks. Something artificial, like a cache. A dead drop. But how did the laughter fit in? And why two riders? Why take a horse at all? The tug of curiosity overpowered cautiousness so Bull tapped Crusher and started forward only to feel that rumbling again.

“This way,” he whispered, trotting back into the thicket of pines. He'd have to hope that whoever was coming back would be going too fast to notice a third set of--huge--hooves.

The mystery riders were fast and not trying to be quiet. More laughter, delighted shrieks, then the horses crested the hill side by side. Took Bull a moment to figure out who as they flitted past the trees, trunks obscuring an immediate positive identity. But he figured it out--the Boss, the one ahead was definitely Grace. He’d recognise that plaideave scarf of hers anywhere. Seanna wasn’t far behind. She shouted something Bull couldn’t catch, and then they were gone, lost in the silence of the forest. Shit, this just got more and more interesting.

“Let’s go, Crusher.” Crusher didn’t move until Bull remembered to give him a nudge. Right. Horses weren’t mabari. Had to lead a horse, not just tell it what to do. He followed fast as he dared, riding through their tracks since covering his tracks didn’t matter much now. He followed their trail all the way back through the forest, pausing at the edge of the frozen lake. There the hoof marks scratched and skittered the ice, all the way out to a large rock that’d been pushed out to the middle of the lake. Bull looked along the shore and saw a group of people crowding around the horses and riders that had just returned. The cheers reached him and he grinned, having figured it out. Should’ve been quicker but hey, can’t pick ‘em all. He trotted back to Haven, staying out the way of the race track. He slipped back into the village, leaving Crusher at the stables. He tipped the stable boy more than necessary so he could get out of all the unsaddling and brushing and washing and headed down to the start and finish line. He found Krem first.

“What’s going on?” Bull asked, feigning ignorance.

“Racing, Chief. Seanna set up a course. Rocky’s taking bets so talk to him if you want to get in. You just missed the Herald and Seanna. Tight race but Seanna won by a nose.”

“Who’s out now?” He thumbed in his pocket for a coin or two.

Krem shrugged, one shouldered. He didn’t look at Bull and that made Bull suspicious. “Sera and Dalish.”

“Dalish?” Bull shouted. “What the fuck does she know about riding horses?” She better not get herself killed.

Krem looked Bull up and down. That glance meant he thought Bull was over reacting but wasn’t sure whether he should call him out or not. “She rode those white deer-horse things back in her clan. You know…” he twirled his hand, searching for the word.

“Halla.”

“Yeah, halla. She’s not going to break her neck, so stop worrying, _Dad_.”

Bull grunted but did his best to follow Krem’s instructions. After a few minutes the first horse shot through the forest and onto the lake. The crowd burst into cheers while a couple booed and ripped up their bets. The rider rounded the rock at full speed even though her competitor was nowhere to be seen. As she got closer, Bull recognised the big grin that reached to pointed ears. Dalish, absolutely killing it. He cheered, too, shouting encouragement even though she couldn’t lose. She skidded over the finish line to even more applause, dismounting with a flourish Bull had never seen from her before. The crowd absorbed her but Bull hung back, eye on the lake edge. Another cheer went up and pointing fingers greeted Sera as she and her horse skidded out onto the ice, legs all over the place--both horse and rider--wobbling like a drunk all the way out to the rock, around it, and back towards the finish line.

“Come on Sera, you can do it!” Bull shouted. Others joined in, encouraging and laughing. As she got closer, the little twigs in her hair stuck out along with an expression of sheer terror. The horse didn’t look best pleased either. She slipped over the finish line and all but fell off her horse. A stable boy was on hand to catch her though, and another to take the reins. Bull joined the fray this time, wanting to heap praise on Dalish and offer Sera a consolation beer. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten about Grace and Seanna until now. He scanned the crowed easily, two heads above everyone else, but couldn’t spot them. He’d have to offer his congratulations another time.

*

Grace glanced over her shoulder at Seanna, propped against the Chantry wall, hands on her lap. One ankle crossed the other and she tapped her foot to some unheard tune. Her eyes were closed and she smiled. No doubt tired from the race. What a race it had been, too! Grace turned her attention back to decorating the cheese board she’d hastily arranged. It wasn’t her finest work, but when Seanna had suggested they slip away before the next race started, Grace hadn’t exactly the time to think about stopping by the kitchens. She grabbed what she could from her cabin instead. Two hard cheeses, apples, a few pickled onions and a sprig of rosemary from the bush that grew wild outside her door, all plonked into a bag and carried up to the Chantry, away from the nosey soldier who guarded her cabin. She carried the board over to Seanna, who took it with bright-eyed thanks. Grace slid beside her and wiggled into place, bumping Seanna’s hip as she went.

“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all.

Seanna just dazzled her with that smile again. Grace blushed and hoped that her cheeks were still pink from the race. She busied herself with making up a bite of cheese then handed it to Seanna.

“The race was a good idea,” she said. “Do you race your horses often?”

Seanna nodded as she finished her cheese. “I have a course set up at home. Me and Bron race. I always beat him, no matter what horse he rides.” Seanna piled up a slice of apple with a chunk of cheese and handed it to Grace. “Having a course like that one out there is good for training, too. Let’s the horse and rider get to know each other. You and Faith are doing well.”

Grace burst with pride at the compliment. She’d been following Dennett’s instructions, feeding and grooming Faith rather than leaving it to the stable boys so the pair could get used to each other.

“You know who else is learning quick,” Seanna said. “The Iron Bull. I was worried at first, watching him climb up onto that war horse. But the two have become fast friends.”

Grace had to agree. She’d not ridden much with the Iron Bull yet--their upcoming trip would be their first together--but from what she’d seen, he’d figured out the riding very quickly. “I might race him next. Do you think I could win?”

Seanna barked a laugh. “Of course, my dear! Crusher might have long legs, but Faith is nimble. You’ll outrun him for sure.”

Grace grinned and her heart beat a little faster at Seanna’s endearment.

The pair chatted as they ate, swapping stories of favourite animals, cat and horse. Seanna saw no reason why Grace couldn’t take a cat with her on her journeying, though Grace wasn’t convinced. Just talking about silly little things made Grace relax. Seanna was easy to be around, like Iron Bull or Varric, but sharing food and company with a friend, Maker, how long ago had Grace done that? She’d written a few letters to her friends back home, but had had no reply yet. Maybe she never would. Maybe they wouldn't want to stay friends with the Herald of Andraste. Grace couldn’t blame them, really, but that did make her wonder why Seanna had befriended her so easily. She didn’t want to question her, lest Grace lose one of her only friends. Instead, she asked about Seanna’s family.

“You call Dennett, ‘Dennett’, not ‘Father’. Is that a Ferelden thing?”

Seanna laughed. “No, I don’t expect it is. I’ve always just called him Dennett. Just like Elaina has always been Elaina even though she’s not my birth mother.”

Grace startled. “What do you mean?”

Seanna glanced at Grace and picked at a crumb of cheese. “My mother--Dennett’s first wife--died birthing me. Oh, don’t fret my dear! I’m not upset about it. It happened. We moved on. Dennett raised me with help from nearby families. He and Elaina married when I was five.”

Graced started to apologise but stopped herself in time. Instead, she tried to snub the impolite thoughts she’d had about Elaina and how rude she’d been when Grace and Cassandra had gone to help with the wolves that had been troubling the farmers. “I guess that explains why the two of you seem so different from each other.”

Seanna gave Grace a sly smile and Grace cringed, convinced she’d been caught out.

“She’s blunt and says what she means. Fereldens are like that. She sounds harsh at times but she’s not mean. Anyway, both she and Dennett have been through a lot. We all have, really.”

Grace didn’t know what to say after that, so she took the empty board from Seanna’s lap and set it on the ground. She inched closer to Seanna and clasped her hand. Seanna rubbed her thumb over Grace’s knuckles. Together they sat, lost to their own thoughts while cheers and shouts from the racing floated in the distance. Tomorrow Grace would head out on some mission with Cassandra, Solas, and Iron Bull. She’d mostly packed, but she still agonised over which book to take. Having horses meant they could pack more, but that room was for food and supplies. Varric said he had the same problem. A big book with tiny writing was his suggestion. Never mind, she still had time to choose.

The thought of heading away filled Grace with dread. Getting away from Haven was good because she couldn’t be called on by Cullen or Josephine, but it meant going away, leaving, heading out into uncertainty. As frustrating as Haven and its residents could be, it was stable. Not quite home, but good enough. A sudden fear gripped her.

“Will you be here when I get back?” she asked, squeezing Seanna’s hand.

Seanna gave Grace a warm smile. “Of course!”

She sounded so bright that maybe she didn’t understand Grace’s meaning. “I’d hate to lose you, if you had to go back to your farm. You’ve come to mean a lot to me in such a short time and you're so good with the horses but Haven isn't your home so what if Elaina or Bron needed you back on the farm?”

“Grace,” Seanna said, soft, calming. She leant in, her dark eyes meeting Grace’s, and stroked Grace’s hair with her free hand.

In that moment, Grace’s whole world shrunk to the size of her space behind the chantry. The only other person in existence sat next to her, arm to arm, leg to leg. Butterflies flitted through her belly, heart thumping as hard as it had during the race. Seanna leaned forward but then pulled away. Her hand fell from Grace’s hair to her thigh and she looked down.

“You’re the Herald of Andraste,” Seanna said, almost to herself. “I can’t.”

Grace’s belly flipped. She licked her lip. “Can’t what?”

“Kiss you. It wouldn’t be--”

Grace dipped in and kissed Seanna. Just a peck on the lips but the spark that went between them tugged Grace back towards Seanna. She resisted, needing to say her piece before she gave in to temptation. “I’m just Grace, honestly. I can close rifts and that’s it. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I just go where I’m told. These days I’m not even sure if I believe in the Maker because nothing that’s happened to me makes sense. Except you. You’re lovely, you know that. You’re the one bright star in all of Ferelden and a true friend.”

Seanna laughed, music to Grace’s ears. “Do you kiss all your friends?”

“Of course! You don’t?”

Seanna shied away. “I’ve plenty of lovers but not many I’d call friends.”

“A lover is someone you’re content to keep for a time, but a friend is someone who holds your heart.”

“A friend,” Seanna said. She turned the word over on her tongue, like it was foreign. “I think I’d like that.”

Grace grinned so much her cheeks hurt. She kept smiling even as Seanna kissed her and only once Grace linked her hands with Seanna’s was she able to kiss Seanna back.

They kissed until the sun sat low in the sky and Haven’s chill seeped through their clothes. Then they darted through Haven to an empty stable and kissed some more.

*

The party--Grace, Bull, Cassandra, and Solas--skirted along the base of the mountains, heading north, towards the sea. There were no towns or villages this close to the Frostbacks, no fertile valleys to farm. They made good time each day and camped at night near streams. They had enough provisions to last them and their horses until they reached an Inquisition outpost on the coast, though Bull worried about the cheese stocks. Grace proved capable of eating an entire quarter-wheel of cheddar in one sitting. He didn’t like that hard stuff all that much. Soft cheeses, gently curdled in lemon juice were more to his liking.

Grace practiced her archery, firing at rabbits and fennecs and nugs from the back of her horse. She rarely missed, and when she did, she corrected herself and nailed the shot the next time. Fresh meat made for a fine dinner. Of the four, Bull was the best cook. He seemed to be the one who enjoyed eating the most, too. Solas and Cassandra ate with a mechanical need, chewing whatever was put in front of them, regardless of the quality. Grace would pick and poke, sniff and tentatively taste. Bull tried to convince them that with just a little extra care, a garnish of freshly picked elfroot, which grew abundantly around these parts, could transform a plain meal into a great meal. They weren’t all that impressed but he made the effort for himself, anyway. Just wait until he had a sack of rice on his hands. _Then_ they’d see what magic he could conjure.

They were a day out from the Inquisition outpost when they encountered their first rift. Bull had passed a couple on his way to Ferelden but he’d steered the boys well clear. Seeing one up close… crap. Bull hadn’t known what to expect and what he saw scared the shit out of him.

Not much to notice at first. Nothing unusual, no temperature or light change, nothing to make the hairs stand up on his neck. Crusher whinnied and shook his head at the same time that Grace and Solas froze. Grace’s hand flared green, right through her glove. It filled her palm, her fist a ball of sharp light. She turned around, finger to her lips, and slipped from her horse. The other three followed, tethering their horses. Bull had his axe ready and he swallowed hard. His heart started thumping but the rush wasn’t bloodlust. Nausea roiled in his stomach and fear gnawed at the edges of his awareness. Thank fuck Cass was with them. He’d have to weigh into the thick of the demons, but so would she. He’d take his cue from her.

Grace crept up to the edge of the clearing and peered through the leaves. “Small rift,” she said. “Three wraiths, one shade.”

Bull grunted. “Doesn’t sound small to me.”

“More will come when we attack.”

Well, that was just great. “So, uh. What’s the plan?” he asked.

Grace nodded to Cassandra, who explained. “You and I will draw the demons in. The shade is large, but not powerful. You stick to that one. I will help until others come through. The Herald and Solas will deal with the wraiths. They like to attack from a distance.”

Bull wasn’t sure if she meant the demons or Grace and Solas, but he had his orders. He’d be fine.

The demons turned on them as soon as they stepped out of the clearing. The wraiths spat green shit in their direction but Bull was already charging towards the shade. He swallowed his fear and forced his tightly controlled training to kick in. Fighting demons wasn’t really like fighting people or animals. His axe made the same crunch when it connected but there was no blood. Sparks or chunks sprayed off, hitting him, or more often, dissolving and dissipating before they hit the ground. No body, at the end, either. His shade sizzled and dissolved and he took a moment to regroup. Grace stood on the edge of the clearing, firing arrow after arrow at some target away from him. Solas directed his magic towards the rift.

“The Iron Bull!” Cassandra called. “Here!” She had two more shades on her and while she defended with her shield at the front, her back was left exposed.

He ran over, hefting his axe and bringing it down as a shade slid to Cass’ open flank. Any normal thing getting hit like that would split in two but not this shitter. His axe wedged in the ground and he had to use all his strength to free it.

“Fucking demon fucking shit,” he muttered. A singe of magic whooshed past him, shattering the shade. Bull thanked Solas and finished off the demon. He looked around, but there were no more. He let out a sigh of relief.

Behind him, Grace and Solas stalked the perimeter. Grace shouted something but he didn’t catch it. Then the ground came out from under him, knocking him flat on his ass. He grunted, body all hot and sticky but not covered in anything that he could see. He scrambled to his feet, blood pulsing through his body from the fear and rage of being caught off guard. At least he’d not let go of his axe. But there were no demons. No enemies.

“What the fuck was that?” The ground where he’d stood was black and charred and smelled like burning flesh. Not his, he didn’t think.

“Get ready. Here comes the next wave.” Cassandra yelled.

“What the shit? There’s more?” He hadn’t finished his sentence when the rift spilled out more of the fuckers. He recognised them, knew what to do now, and carved a path through the demons. The air sizzled and sparked. His skin burned and he wondered whether his vitaar would last, or worse, if a demon would get inside him.

He landed the killing blow on the last wraith in the field but didn’t let his guard down this time. Black spots appeared on the ground, one under Grace’s feet. She skipped over it and jogged toward the rift. Behind her, the black spot bubbled and popped, a green steamy ooze rose and fell. Then he looked down and saw one forming under his feet. He yelped and jumped away.

“Mother _fucker_.”

Cassandra joined his side, sheathing her sword and stowing her shield. Just because she went off guard didn’t mean that Bull would. He balanced on the balls of his toes, waiting for the next fucking thing to slither out of that rift. Instead, Grace held her hand up, still gloved, towards the rift. She grimaced, etched in pain or hate or something just as ugly. Her hand shot out a column of green shit and it hit the rift. The air sizzled again, cracking and shaking, making Bull’s teeth rattle. With an almighty snap that looked like it might’ve ripped Grace’s arm off, the rift zipped shut. Just straight up turned in on itself and disappeared.

Grace shook her hand. Solas had already started walking back to the horses. Cassandra wandered up to Grace and the two exchanged a few words before she followed in Solas’ direction. Bull stayed rooted to the spot. No more black bubbles any more so he just stood there, shocked.

“Are you okay?” Grace called. She flitted over to Bull. “Bull, Iron Bull. Are you okay?”

He blinked twice, four times, chest heaving but not enough air got in. He worked his mouth but no sound came out.

“It’s okay. It’s over. We got them all and the rift is closed.”

Air finally flowed, allowing him to take a long breath, centering himself before letting it out through his nose. “You just… with your hand! And it… how the _fuck_ does that work?” He hoped he didn’t sound as shrill as he did in his own head.

“I don’t know. No one knows. It just works.” She reached out and Bull flinched. “Sorry.” She drew her hand back and looked chagrined.

It was her right hand, the normal one, and she’d gone to comfort him.

“No, I’m sorry. That was… Fucking _demons_ ,” he muttered.

“Come, let us get water. Do you want some cheese?” She walked backwards a few steps, waiting for Bull to follow. He forced himself to move, put one foot in front of the other.

Solas and Cassandra were already in the saddles. Solas munched on an apple and glared at Bull. Bull mounted his horse first go, much to his relief, and in a moment the four were trotting through the battleground. Only there was no evidence that there’d ever been a battle, except for scuffed earth that could be put down to horses, and the scorch marks which looked like camp fires. As they returned to the forest, a shiver ran down Bull’s spine. He really, _really_ didn’t want to be bringing up the rear so he trotted forward, leaving Solas and Grace behind him.

He was silent that night in camp. He took first watch and jumped at every sound, every twig snapping and every creak from the trees above. He knew there weren’t any demons lurking on the edge of the camp. Just nugs and fennecs. Still, he didn’t allow himself to wander too far on his perimeter checks. He tried writing up an account of the rift in his head. The Arishok and Ariqun would want to know the details but the words remained out of reach. Too soon. Too much noise still. He chanted the Body Canto instead, whispering it at the night sky, letting Kosluns’ words soothe and calm him.

Even when Cassandra relieved him from his watch, he couldn’t sleep. He propped himself against a tree, not trusting the ground, and draped a blanket over himself. He kept a hand on his axe.

Sunrise in the forest wasn’t really an event. Just a murky grey becoming a lighter grey over an infinitesimally long time. He watched the night slide away, relieved that in the daylight he should be able to see his enemies. The camp woke slowly. Usually he’d be up and moving, helping poke the fire into life again, getting porridge and bowls and tea ready. This time, he watched Cassandra stoke the fire and Grace prepare the tea. She came over to him and handed him a cup. Some herby and elfroot shit freshly brewed from plants picked yesterday. Tasted pretty damn good, actually.

“Can I sit?” she asked.

Bull nodded once. She sat, cross legged, and sipped her tea. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you sure you’re okay?” She looked up at him with those big blue eyes full of concern. People had expressed their concern to Bull before, but none looked quite so earnest as Grace did right now.

“No. I’m not okay.” He spoke low, only for her ears. “That rift scared the shit out of me. Magical crap and demons, we don’t deal well with it. You know what we do to our mages and seeing that… _thing_ yesterday…” He grunted, feeling bad for dumping that all on her.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you, or told you what it was like. We’ve been doing this for a while now, me and Solas and Cassandra. Varric, too. It’s kind of second nature. I didn’t think to tell you what would happen.”

“Yeah, well. Panic over. I know what to expect now.”

“I should tell you about all the other kinds of demons there are.”

He looked up. “There are others?”

Grace gave a pained smile. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Huge ones, bigger than you. They’re pride demons. And pretty ones. They’re desire demons. There’s this one that is all skinny and looks like an insect and it even has lots of eyes and teeth. It can suck into the ground and pop up under you. I hate those ones.”

Bull shuddered.

“It’s okay,” Grace said. “ _I’ll_ protect you.”

Bull snapped up. Oh ho, what was that? Did she just… was she _flirting_ with him? No, couldn’t be. She had eyes for the Horse Master’s daughter. If she were someone else, he’d flirt back, make the most of this. Best play it safe.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said. “I got my axe. It’s pretty good at protecting me.” He waited to see if she’d follow up but Solas called out that the porridge was ready. She hurried to grab a couple of bowls and returned.

“I hate the demons, but I hate the mark even more,” she said. She stabbed her porridge with her spoon, chewing as spoke. “I don’t know where it came from, or why I got it. Or what I did to deserve it. Solas is wonderful, he helped me, kept me alive when I fell out of the Fade, or wherever, but sometimes, he looks at me closing a rift and I think he looks jealous, like he’d like the magic for himself. He can have it, as far as I’m concerned. Worst thing is, they keep popping up. The rifts, I mean. I close one in one area and then we get a report of another turning up in some farmer’s field, or on a road. We don’t know how many there are. Solas thinks that when we close the breach, they will stop forming. Whether they will disappear too, he doesn’t know. I suppose if they don’t disappear, I’ll have to go around closing them all before I can go home for good.”

He wanted to ask her more, ask her about home, and what she’d been doing before all this shit happened. But Cassandra told them to stop dilly dallying and get packed up. The coast was still a long day’s ride away.

“I can’t wait for a proper bed,” Grace said as she got up.

Bull just needed a good fuck. Maybe the guys at this outpost would need a fuck too. He hoped so.

*

Everyone at that damn outpost was as miserable as the weather. Bull didn’t get his fix of sex, but he did get to kill some things. Took three trips, but he dragged back three great bear carcases that they’d fought blood and sweat over. Two of the fuckers had attacked the party at once and the third joined in for fun. Boss’d been pretty cut up about all the axe and sword holes in the skins, though she’d conceded that they couldn’t exactly have been choosy about where to land the blows when there were three of the bastards attacking. Still, the kills provided enough meat to last weeks. Boss’d been damn sure with her knife, too, slicing away the skin and parting the meat from the bones. Watching her work had been pretty hot. Even Cassandra looked impressed.

Twice they went out to deal with rifts. Bull spent a while steeling himself for the first one. He considered asking Cassandra, or the burly requisition officer to help him out, readying him for it by hitting him with a thick branch, but they wouldn’t’ve have understood. Instead, he climbed to the top of a nearby cliff and hurled rocks into the sea, yelling shit about how he wasn’t afraid. And he wasn’t. He cut down those demons no problem. The Boss had given him these tender looks, assuring him that he’d be fine, and he’d had to not laugh. She was too nice for this crap.

After four days of getting wet and eating bear meat, the group set off again. They headed east, sticking to the coast as much as possible. They were headed to Highever, Cassandra said. Bull recognised the name but didn’t know details. Everyone was looking forward to the prospect of a bath and the chance to dry out.

All this was new territory for him and it was shit. The coast was either tiny pebbles that sucked at Crusher’s hooves like a swamp, or hard rocks that Crusher couldn’t navigate. Those days were slow, dismounting and walking and constantly slipping. His ankle ached and he dealt with the pain and boredom by chewing on poultices and writing reports in his head.

He’d been leading Crusher through a fucking awful patch of rocks when he heard the screech. It was no ordinary screech. The air pulsed and though he’d never heard a screech like that before, he instinctively knew the creature that’d made it. He near snapped his leg in two in his rush to get off the rocks and around the corner. When he got there, the other three had stopped and were watching.

“Would you look at that!” he yelled.

Cassandra put her arm out, motioning for him not go to any closer. He stared, open mouthed.

“Atashi,” he whispered. He repeated the word again, drawing out the syllables like a benediction. Never in his life did he think he’d see one of the glorious ones. And he had a front row ticket to what looked to be an epic battle, because not only was there a fucking _dragon_ , on the beach, there was a giant, too!

The dragon screeched again, making Bull’s ears pop. It flicked a long forelimb at the giant. Seeing the giant alone would have impressed the shit out of him, but that was nothing compared to seeing the dragon.

Dragons hadn’t been seen in the north in living memory, for generations, even. But he’d heard rumours that they prowled the south in small numbers. And the Blight’s arch demon, that was supposed to be a dragon, wasn’t it? A fucked up dragon leading a horde of darkspawn, despoiling everything in their path. Qunari lore spoke of dragons’ power, their wild and savage nature. Power like that couldn’t be left unchecked. As far as the qun was concerned--and the qun was all that mattered--power like that had to be tamed. Strange theories whispered between the Ben Hassrath hinted at a connection between qunari and dragons, either through breeding or magic, no one really knew. Order from chaos--that was what the qun required. So maybe qunari, with their dragon-like horns and thick skin and cunning strength became that order, somehow, eons ago. The stories all came true as Bull stood on that rocky beach and watched the dragon before him.

But for all that, the two great beasts fought without much grace. The dragon appeared to be favouring an injured back leg while the giant had blood streaming down its face from where one of its tusks had been snapped off. The two flung wide swings at each other, looking like drunk sailors fighting underwater.

Even from this distance, the dragon was massive. Its wingspan was huge, and Bull guessed it had to be in order to get the whole body off the ground. The head, with its vicious teeth and soulless eyes exuded raw, uncontrolled power. How best to attack it? Stay away from those teeth for a start. The tail was a whip, so he’d have to be careful of that. Those feet could squash a bear. Would take a coordinated effort to bring one of those things down. Still, it could be done. Bull looked at his companions. Yeah, with him and Cass attracting the rage, Solas and Grace could pick at its weak spots from a safe distance.

“Can we have a go, Boss?” He tore his attention from the fight to bat his eyelashes at Grace. She still sat on her horse and he had to look up. She looked just as amazed as he felt, eyes wide, lips parted, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

“Of course not,” Cassandra said. “We will go around them.”

Grace grimaced, like she regretted not being able to get closer too, but she clicked her mouth shut and followed Cassandra. Solas followed. Bull mounted slowly. He waited a few minutes, watching, before following too.

Sounds from the fight continued to rumble through the forest. As they circled around, Bull heard a shriek, then the pounding of wings. He looked up in time to see the dragon flying low overhead, travelling west. Its belly was a creamy colour, making it look soft, but he doubted a beast like that would leave any defences open. He memorised his location and resolved to pass back this way with the Chargers once all this was done.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition welcomes a new face. I had tried to write Blackwall's introduction in canon but to be honest, it just didn't translate well to text.

The problem with runners, and even ravens, was how slow they were. A message sent in the field could take days, weeks, to return to Haven, and while that raven flew, the sender either had to wait for a reply or make their own decision.

Cassandra had made her own decision.

Josephine sighed as she read the note. At least Fergus Cousland was already a nominal ally of the Inquisition. Stopping at Castle Highever as part of their on the return journey was a good idea, especially since they would essentially ride right past it, but Josephine wished she’d had a moment to advise both Cassandra and the Herald on the finer details of Ferelden etiquette.

“Ferelden etiquette? Josephine, trust me. You don’t have to worry about that.” Cullen’s laugh eased Josephine only slightly. 

“Still, a proper delegation that included soldiers from our own ranks would have been most appropriate, yes? Instead, we have, for want of a better term, four bedraggled wanders seeking refuge in the home of one of Ferelden’s most noble houses.”

“Bedraggled is a bit harsh. Disparate is more accurate.”

Josephine conceded the point.

Cullen looked behind him, like he was checking that no one had entered through the closed door of her study while they’d both been sitting there. “Cassandra may be blunt, but Cousland will appreciate that. I’m more worried about the Iron Bull.”

Now Josephine laughed. “After all he’s done to get into your good graces?”

“We don’t know what he’s doing out there. Or here, for that matter. But out there, if he lets something happen to the Herald, we won’t hear about it for days. Weeks if he does away with Cassandra and Solas. By that time, it will be too late to mount a response.”

“It will be too late if _anything_ happens to the Herald, the Iron Bull or no. Sometimes, you just have to trust people.”

Cullen humphed. “This coming from the ambassador?”

Josephine gave a sly smile and was pleased when Cullen responded with the same.

“Sera, though, she most definitely shouldn’t be trusted.” Cullen shook his head.

This time Josephine barked a laugh. “How can you say that? She is an unpredictable delight.”

“She’s doing things to my training dummies.”

“Like what?”

Cullen scratched the back of his head and looked suitably chagrined. “I don’t know yet. But I’ve seen her lurking. And what of these ‘friends’ of hers. Do you know anything about them? We had so called Red Jennies in Kirkwall. Did nothing but cause trouble.”

“From my limited dealings with them, they have proved most useful.” She shuffled through a pile of papers and handed Cullen a sheaf. “A noble sabotaging a rival’s marriage? Scandalous.” She couldn’t keep the gleam from her eyes.

Cullen put the papers down. “Can we really use that kind of information? It sounds like a waste of time.”

“We may not have to, but if we do, we can.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like her.”

*

Grace couldn’t ride away from Castle Highever any faster. Faith clipped along the ground like she wanted to escape, too. Her recently washed and dry trousers were soaked already, though her jerkin still remained dry under her oilskin cloak. Her hair stuck to her face, plastered by sweat and rain. She didn’t care. She rode hard, not wanting to stop until the castle was well behind her. Her companions seemed to feel the same. Cassandra set the pace and for once Grace was glad to follow. Iron Bull stayed close behind Grace, and Solas brought up the rear. She didn’t know when they’d stop, and frankly she wouldn’t care if they rode this hard all the way back to Haven. If only the horses could keep going like that, let alone their riders.

Castle Highever and its occupants had been dreary and sad. At first Grace had thought it was because of the weather. The castle, stained dark grey from the rain, stood next to a towering cliff, looking like it wanted to fall, but hadn't made up its mind just yet. Teyrn Cousland looked like he’d never been dry or warm in his whole life. He’d met them at the gates on his own charger, an equally melancholic beast, both of them soaked to the bone. After dinner in the great, empty, cold hall, Grace realised that the castle wasn’t sad because of the weather. It was something much deeper than that. Something old, and deep, that had permeated stones and bones.

The four Inquisition members seemed to crowd the halls, as tall and as empty as they were. A handful of servants and Cousland himself. He apologised when he saw Grace shiver, and had the fire stoked.

The hearth in her room looked like it had never seen a fire in its life. At least the water in her bath was hot. She stayed in as long as she could before drying herself off with vigorous rubbing on a scratchy old towel.

Cassandra confided that they would leave as soon as their gear had dried off. Grace had hugged her, never more pleased to leave a place than here.

Worst was when Cousland asked if they would attend a vigil for Divine Justina. A Mother from a neighbouring village came and presided over the meeting. Solas and Iron Bull wormed their way out of attending and Grace cursed them both. She sat on a pew in the private, too empty chantry of the castle with Cassandra, Cousland, a few servants and guests, and the mother. She cried and she knew they all thought she was crying over the death of the Divine, but she cried because she was cold and lonely and so, so homesick.

Their clothes had barely dried after five days strung out on racks in front of the fires. Damp sank into everything. Their clothes, the beds, the stone walls and floors. Even the bread, fresh out the oven, succumbed to the damp.

Their goodbye had been short, and for a moment, when she clasped Cousland’s freezing hand in hers, she thought she saw a glimmer of the man he used to be. He bade them well and didn’t leave the gates until they were out of sight and he was soaked again.

Cassandra drew the group to a trot and Grace realised just how hard they’d been going. Her horse frothed at the mouth, steam rising from her head and back. They would have to stop soon, but she didn’t know where. Maker, wherever it was, she hoped it would be dry.

The trot slowed to a walk. Solas rode up to Cassandra and the pair exchanged a few words, Cassandra nodding at the end. Grace was too tired to ask what was happening, content enough to follow and be told when someone else deemed it necessary.

Solas fell back beside her. “My lady, do you feel it?”

She didn’t know what he meant at first, but then her hand sparked. With a weary sigh, she dismounted and checked her bow and arrows. Around her, the others did the same, preparing their weapons.

She gave Bull a smile. His scowl smoothed into a toothy grin, though the glee worried her.

“Ready to kick some ass?” he asked. He didn’t let her reply. “I’m itching for a fight, even if it is demons.”

Whatever had troubled him about demons and rifts at first no longer affected him. He ripped into them like a madman. All four of them did. Maybe being holed up for so long had driven them all a little bit loopy.

Only once the rift was closed did Grace see where they were. The stubbled ground had recently been harvested. Wheat, probably. A field. A wooden and wire fence closed them in, the shore of Lake Calenhad on one side and a road on the other. Smoke rose and mingled with the rain, and when Grace looked closely, she saw houses. Maker! At last! The chance for a dry, warm night spurred her on.

*

As far as paltry villages went, this one was awful. It had that air of hopeless desperation tinged with a sharp edge of anger. Anger at anything. The weather, the stew, the dogs, the newcomers. Blackwall had managed a low profile by being as gruff as the villages. Wasn’t hard with a beard like his. He didn’t bother combing it or his hair, and he ruffed up his eyebrows just to show that he was the kind of guy who shouldn’t be messed with, no matter how much someone spoiled for a fight. If he were honest with himself, he was the one spoiling for a fight. Couldn’t do it here though. With every man of fighting age crammed into the tavern every night, drunk on fermented potatoes and rotten apples, he wouldn’t get a swing in. No, he’d wait until he was on the road again and give some bandits what for. Just two more nights, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d help the tavern keeper chop wood, no matter the weather, and that would pay for his board and keep. Blackwall was good with an axe. He looked forward to letting out some of his frustration on the wood.

The already quiet tavern dropped to an ominous silence as the door swung open. For a moment, the loudest sound was the rain pelting down outside. Four bedraggled travellers spilled through the doorway and then the door shut again. Blackwall looked away and drank his ale. Maker, this would not end well. His sword was out in the barn. He had at least two daggers on him, should the need arise. The need would arise. One of them was a qunari and the other an elf. The elf alone would be cause for trouble around here. But the qunari… Blackwall curled his fingers around the handle of his mug like it was the handle of a dagger. The clay tankard had been fired so hard that he could clobber a few heads if it came to it.

The other two in the group were women. The taller one meant business, if that scowl was anything to do by. And that scar, right down the length of her cheek. He should do his best to avoid getting on her wrong side. The other one looked barely out of girlhood. Her eyes were wide and haunted, the wrinkles out of place on such youthful skin. She kept her hand under her cloak which only lead to her looking like she might pull a knife at any moment. Pity she looked like she wouldn’t be able to hurt a nug.

The tall woman walked straight to the bar. The young woman looked around then ducked her head. Like the tall woman, the elf didn’t look around. He appeared bored, arrogant even. The qunari only had one eye, the other covered in an eyepatch and a face so scared that he was either a great warrior or a lucky one. He didn’t wear a shirt, either. Only a leather brace. His grey skin glistened from the rain while the others were just soaked. He took in the crowd, assessing everyone. He would be the one to look out for.

“No weapons in the tavern,” the keeper barked. The tall woman looked ready to protest, but shut her mouth. She turned and motioned to her companions. The girl didn’t have anything, except whatever she was holding onto under her cloak. The elf just had a stick strapped to his back. Might be a mage, might not be. The qunari took the tall woman’s sword and shield, and his own great axe, which Blackwall wished he could have a moment to drool over, so good it looked, and ducked back outside. Where he stashed them, Blackwall didn’t know. He doubted anyone would try and steal them. None of the farmers here would be able to lift weapons that big. The qunari came back in with a new coat of rain. Had they come on horse or by foot? The answer came when the tall one spoke. Everyone watched so everyone could hear.

“Do you have a stable and rooms?” she asked. Not Ferelden. North, far north. Nevaran perhaps.

The tension ratcheted up a notch.

“Who’s asking,” the keep replied.

“The Inquisition.”

The room went cold.

“We heard of you. Didn’t think you’d deign to stop in our village. We have a rift, you know. Been spitting out demons for weeks. We been trying to get someone to do something about it. You going to do something about it?” He wasn’t asking politely. He was challenging them.

“It is done.”

A murmur went up from the tavern. The keep looked surprised but managed to get his surly facade back in place. He motioned to his boy to go check. The boy ran out the back and returned in a moment.

“It’s gone! It’s really gone!”

The room should have sighed his relief. They should have cheered. They should be buying the newcomers so many drinks they’d drink the tavern dry. Instead the air prickled with hostility.

“How’d you do that then? One of you a mage? They say the demons are caused by mages. They say only the Herald of Andraste can kill the rifts.” He spat it as an accusation, then actually spat. Right on his own floor.

The girl stared at the ground and the qunari stepped closer to her.

“People say many things,” the tall woman said. “We have closed your rift and we seek your hospitality. Can you provide that?” She threw the accusatory tone back at the keep.

He hesitated, Wiped the bar, curled his lips.

“It will cost you,” he said.

“Of course it will.”

“Come. We’ll talk.” He nodded towards the back room and the group followed. He probably didn’t want any of the locals knowing how much gold he’d have once he’d fleeced the newcomers.

A few grunts and growls came from those in the bar. Blackwall caught some of the words, most of them uncomplimentary. He checked his exits. A door to his right would be the quickest way out, though the bruiser sitting by it might be a problem. Worse come to the worse, he could always break the window behind him and jump out. He finished his ale, and, wanting something to do, went up to the bar and got another. He didn’t take his empty mug back up, instead, keeping it under the table. Two mugs might be better than one. The boy served him and he’d just gotten back to his spot when the newcomers returned to the main bar. The keep looked far too happy, cheeks rosy as he smiled. He ordered the boy to get bowls of stew while the newcomers looked for a table. They were all taken. No one moved for them. The girl looked terrified, her hand still covered. Maybe she had a deformity. Wouldn’t make her the weirdest one in the group if she did.

The qunari lead the way, striding to the table closest to the door near Blackwall. He looked down at the man sitting on the edge of the bench.

“We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re here to eat, sleep, and be on our way. Care to help us out with that?” He spoke clearly, annunciating each word. He didn’t speak like the qunari Blackwall had seen before. They spoke reluctantly, halting as they chose the right words. This guy spoke common like a local-born.

Those at the table shuffled down, making room for the party of four. The qunari went in first, then the girl slipped in beside him. Blackwall couldn’t see her, so large was the qunari. The elf and the tall woman sat opposite. The boy brought stew and drinks and the four started eating in silence.

The room relaxed a notch, conversation starting in one corner, someone calling out for another drink at one table. But Blackwall, like a few in the tavern, kept his attention squarely on the newcomers. They weren’t all that interesting now. The qunari’s skin had dried, though Blackwall noticed a growing puddle under his feet.

An hour or more passed and nothing had happened. The newcomers didn’t ask for more food or drink, and didn’t move from their seats. They hadn’t been forgotten, but they weren’t deserving of the tavern’s undivided attention anymore.

He didn’t see the movement that sparked off the trouble. He heard it though: a spark crackled in the air and the girl gasped. Her hand came out from under her cloak. Both hands were gloved, with leather additions to her left hand, the one she’d been hiding. An archer, then. The spark came again, from her left hand. Green. She shoved her hand under the table but the damage was done.

“You,” a bury local said. “You’re one of those apostates, aren’t you.” Surely he’d know better than to try and attack a mage, especially a scared one.

“None of us are apostates,” the tall woman said.

“Then what was that?” Burly spoke through gritted teeth, his knuckles already white fists.

The qunari stood and turned. He looked close to seven feet tall. “ _She_ was what killed the rift and the demons. You got a problem with that?”

Someone else piped up. “You’re the Inquisition! She _is_ the Herald!”

The bar erupted into life, men yelling and chairs scraping. Blackwall held his mug tightly. He’d stay out of it until he’d at least figured out what side he wanted to be on.

“You let all the demons out of the Fade!”

Blackwall didn’t know who shouted it but it was all the room needed to descend into anarchy.

A bottle got thrown first, missing the qunari by inches and smashing on the wall behind. The qunari shoved the girl under the table then he turned. The elf and the tall women were on their feet, too. The room went quiet again, no one making the first move, at least until the qunari growled, “Bring it on.” Then it was on. A full bar room brawl the likes Blackwall had never seen before, and he’d been in a few in his time. Blackwall got to his feet so he wouldn’t be caught off guard. Those who weren't attacking the newcomers threw punches at each other. The three newcomers remained close to the table, never moving too far but doing enough damage. Blackwall couldn’t see the girl, but figured she would be cowering. The qunari picked up a man who got too close and threw him away. Another took his place only to get punched in the face. The elf and the tall woman fought just as well. A few bodies lay at their feet. Might be dead, might just be out cold. Too early to tell. The man beside Blackwall jostled him and Blackwall raised his mug ready to smack him over the head, but he’d only shoved him as he launched himself over the table to fight with a neighbour. Bunch of nug’s asses. The newcomers had solved their problem closed the rift, and these idiots wanted to punish them for it.

More people crowded towards the three fighters. They’d have to leave soon, if they were to leave at all. The bruiser at the door closest to Blackwall stood stock still, like a statue. He probably wouldn't be any trouble for either the woman or the qunari, but they had to get to him first. A man wielding a bottle crashed into the qunari, smacking the bottle against the qunari’s horns. He shook his head and shoved the guy out the way. More bottles came, some thrown, others smashed on the table and used as weapons. Three guys launched themselves at the qunari, two of them making contact. The qunari roared, picking one man up in each hand and hitting them together in some grotesque kiss. The amount of blood pissing everywhere told Blackwall that they were definitely dead. The air sizzled and Blackwall realised it was coming from the elf. So he was a mage. Where the magic was directed, Blackwall couldn't see. But he could see the knife-wielding man headed straight for the woman, who was occupied with another assailant. Blackwall jumped over the table and threw his mug at the man. It landed square on the chest, enough to stun, but not enough to knock the knife away. Didn’t matter. It gave the woman enough time to deal with her current problem before turning to the knife.

Though the woman could clearly defend herself, and those around her, Blackwall couldn’t help but jump to her aid. Together they disarmed the knife-wielder. She smiled her thanks at him and he nodded back.

“We should probably get the Boss out of here,” the qunari said.

“Follow me,” Blackwall said. He turned and threw a chair through the window, the glass shattering in a satisfying sprinkle of shards. He didn’t know whether they followed him until he was right outside and being pelted with rain. Too dark to see anything. Fuck it.

“Get the horses,” the woman ordered. The elf ran around the side of the tavern, his eyes glowing. Blackwall swallowed the fear.

“Are you with us?” she asked him as she followed the elf. They’d need their weapons, Blackwall’s, too.

“Yes, my lady.”

“You have a horse?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You can ride with me”

He only saw the girl because her hand glowed so bright it lit up everything around them. Her face was an ashen green. Shapes in the night took on strange formations as she waved her hand around. The qunari had thrown her onto her horse, Blackwall realised, before mounting his own massive charger. He hefted his great axe and had it been appropriate, Blackwall would’ve let out a low whistle. Instead, he found himself being hauled up onto the woman’s horse in front of her and they galloped out of the village and into the storming night.

*

Bull didn’t let himself think until they were far away from the village. Not that he expected anyone to follow them. Not in this weather and not in the pitch dark. His shoulders ached, and lower, his ribs ground together and shot pain through him. Must’ve gotten some glass stuck in there. Nothing he could do about it now except grit his teeth and slap a poultice on once they finally stopped.

He brought up the rear, sticking as close as he could to Grace’s horse. His own towered above hers and he had to hope that horses knew not to stand on each other. Her hand kept sparking even though there weren’t any demons or rifts around. He’d have to ask her about that, and why she’d sparked in the tavern. Solas lead the way using some kind of magical crap to light the path, Cassandra and the new guy just behind them.

Cassandra called for Solas to slow, and the group dropped to a trot. They were on a main road, rutted and muddy from carts and all the rain, but it made for easy riding. Bull brought his horse alongside Grace’s.

“You doing okay, Boss?” he asked.

She shook her head, jaw set.

“What can I do for you?”

Nothing. Not even a shrug.

“You want to ride with me?”

She shook her head again.

He let her be and contented himself with riding alongside her. She sniffed and wiped her face a lot. Could be the cold, but he knew her well enough to know she was crying. It killed him to see her suffering for nothing. After that depressing hole they’d spent a week in all she wanted was a nice warm tavern fire and they found themselves back there, in a tavern full of _bas_ who didn’t know a good thing when they saw it. That tavern had showed him all he needed to know about Fereldens and their fears. This country had been hit hard by the blight, darkspawn raging through the fields. Even though it was ten years ago, the farmers would remember. Probably took them that long to get their farms up and running again. And now there were demons spawning where their wheat grew. They needed someone to blame. Mages were the easiest target. The apostates roaming free of their circles. Rogue templars, too. But then the Boss walked into their tavern with her magical hand and there was their number one enemy.

He hadn’t meant to kill those two guys. Fear made people do stupid things. He’d seen it enough in Seheron. But his party had been outnumbered, the Boss was crying under a table, and those pricks had pissed him off. Him and Cass could have taken the whole tavern. Solas, too, he supposed. He’d seen the guy wield magic even without that staff.

The new guy was an interesting development. Bull’d spotted him when they’d entered the tavern. Looked like any one of the others in that dump. Took Bull a while to work out why he was the odd one out though. And that’s what it was: he was odd. Though he sat beside another grumpy looking shit, they weren’t together. Weren’t talking or sitting conspiratorially. The guy was fast though, and good. Bull was glad he chose the right side. Would’ve been a pain in the ass if he had to have fought him, too. And he got them out of there with a nice move that brought them some time. Maybe the Inquisition would have to send reparations for the broken window. Shouldn’t have to, given the amount of money Cass had coughed up to spend the night. And now where were they? Certainly not bunking up in a shitty little tavern, that was for sure.

Solas took an abrupt turn and led the group off the path. Wet leaves slapped Bull and Crusher and that was worse than the rain. Then he was dry. He looked around, realised they were in a cave. A massive cave by the look of it. Everyone dismounted and defaulted to their regular jobs. Bull sorted out the horses while Cassandra and Solas set up a fire. At least mages were good for something. Grace and the new guy stood around looking out of place. At least Grace’s hand had stopped glowing. Once the fire was lit, she sat down, crumpled, head between her knees. She shook. New guy looked like he wanted to cry too.

“Hey, New Guy. Got a name?” Bull asked, sitting down next to Grace, close enough she’d know he was there if she needed him. Cass sat on her other side. Solas nestled a kettle in the fire and set out cups. New Guy, assessing the situation, sat down too.

“The name’s Blackwall,” he said. Had a Marcher accent. “And you are the Inquisition?”

Cassandra snorted. “We are a small part of the Inquisition, yes.”

“The lady, she really is the one they’re calling the Herald?” Blackwall asked. Solas handed him a mug, then passed more around the rest of them.

“Lady Trevelyan is the one who can close the rifts, yes.”

Blackwall’s eyes went wide. “Lady Trevelyan? Of Ostwick?”

“The very same.”

He let out a low whistle.

Grace continued to shake. Bull kept an ear on Blackwall’s conversation with Cassandra while he leaned forward to tend to Grace. He put a hand on her back, over her sopping cloak, trembles shaking against his palm.

“Boss,” he whispered. “Are you cold, or crying?” She wiped her face but didn’t look up. “Thing is, I can’t do much if you’re crying, but if you’re cold, I can warm you up.”

She poked her head out from between her knees. Her eyes were red, nose red, cheeks red. She whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. “I want to go home.” Then she lay down on the dirt, still curled into a tight little ball. He kept his hand on her side and caught Solas’ attention. He came over.

“She just needs to rest,” Solas said. “We all do.”

“What was all that about in the tavern? Why did her hand spark? We weren’t near any rifts,” Bull asked.

Solas was silent a moment, turning to look at Grace with sad eyes and quiet contemplation. He put his hand on her shoulder and Bull felt the magic. Warming, but not drying. Felt almost comforting.

“She was scared,” he said finally.

Bull expected more of an explanation, but instead Solas said, “You have handled yourself well, the Iron Bull. You know as well as I that this trip was in part a test of your loyalty. You never left the lady’s side. You take your role seriously.”

Bull bristled at the backhanded compliment but he wouldn’t be goaded. Instead, he shrugged and turned his attention to Blackwall and Cassandra. From the sounds of it, they were getting a new addition to the team. The guy was good in a fight, Bull gave him that. A Grey Warden, too apparently. Bull hadn’t had too much to do with the order whose sworn duty it was to keep the world safe from darkspawn and archdemons. Par Vollen and Seheron didn’t have any Deep Road entrances that he knew of. Tevinter, maybe, but the blights always started in the south. He hadn’t figured out how or why Grey Wardens were the only ones who could end a blight. Maybe now he’d have a chance, get to cosy up to Blackwall and find out.

Bull took the watch, telling the others to sleep. The fire died down to embers, then ash. They probably wouldn’t bother with hot drinks or food in the morning. They still had bread from Highever and though it tasted of despair, it would at least afford them a quick getaway. Outside the cave, the rain continued, alternating between heavy, violent showers and gentle, almost silent drizzle. Morning wasn’t really signalled in the cave. A barely noticeable grey tinted the trees outside. Bull had to help Grace to her feet come their departure.

“Hey, want to ride with me today?” he asked.

Grace looked up at him, eyes brimming and glazed. Her bottom lip wobbled and she whispered a “Yes please.” Bull helped her up, got them both settled.

Blackwall mounted Grace’s horse, looking completely out of place on the dainty little thing. Still, he knew how to ride and made those little clicky _touse touse_ noises horses seemed to understand, and he fell into line with the others.

*

Grace wrapped herself up in Seanna’s arms, burying her head in the crook of her neck. She smelled like she’d been feeding out hay, which she probably had been doing when Grace and her companions trotted into Haven. But she was here now, with Grace, and that was all that mattered.

“Welcome home, my dear.” Seanna kissed Grace’s temple and pulled free from the hug. She didn’t let go of Grace though, squeezing her hand as she gently tugged Grace to the ground. The little spot behind the chantry had an oil skin blanket now. It didn’t stop the cold from seeping through, but it made for dry trousers. A few cats wandered around, meowing and nudging. They’d kept themselves well fed but the looks of their fat bellies. Wiggles climbed onto Grace’s lap and together Grace and Seanna took turns stroking him.

Grace smiled. Home. Was this home? Not really. Not at all. But it was the best she had. At least she felt safe here. Not just here, with Seanna, but in Haven. Graced closed her eyes and nosed Seanna’s neck, leaving a trail of kisses from her ear to her shoulder. “Maker, I’m so glad to see you. You wouldn’t believe how awful that trip was.”

“Tell me,” Seanna said.

So Grace told her everything, sparing no detail. From the dreary Inquisition outpost on the coast, to the heartbreaking despair of Highever, and all the encounters in between. The dragon and giant, bears and wolves and deer, rifts and bandits. When she came to tell of the tavern, she faltered, stuttering, not knowing where to start. Maker, what words could she use to describe just how afraid she had been of that place and those people? If Iron Bull hadn’t been with her in that tavern, if he hadn’t’ve shoved her under that table or grabbed her when they escaped… Ifs and maybes weren’t worth thinking about. Iron Bull _had_ been there. He’d protected her, comforted and fed her. She couldn’t have asked for a better, more loyal bodyguard and... friend. For that was what he was: a friend. She liked that big loud scary qunari with his horns and scars. She felt safe with him in a way that was different to Seanna.

“What happened in the tavern?” Seanna asked, prompting Grace out of her thoughts.

Grace shivered. Curse the cold.

“The tavern… the tavern was…” Grace made herself go back there, but this time she put herself in the shoes of the villagers. Their homes had been destroyed, that much had been clear. After Grace had closed the rift, the group had ridden into the village and seen the destruction. Not all of it had been demons, either. Scorch marks along a rock wall spoke of mage fire. A tree cracked right down the middle, lightning. No wonder those people had been so leery of strangers. But mages weren't their only fear. They'd feared Grace, too.

“Are you scared of me?” Grace asked.

Seanna looked at Grace like she was a particularly dim horse. “No, my dear. Why would I be scared of you?” she spoke in quiet, calming tones.

“Because I have this mark on my hand that can close rifts. Because I’m the only one who survived an explosion that killed hundreds of people. Because I’m the bloody Herald of Andraste!” Her voice wobbled and she knew she was being shrill. She shook, too, but not from the cold this time. “That whole village was scared of me even though I helped them. The chantry is scared of me. Half of bloody Haven turn their backs when I pass. Maker, even I'm scared of what I am.”

Seanna pulled Grace close, stroking her hair and rocking her. “People are often afraid of things they don’t understand. Like magic and mages. Sometimes that fear makes them angry, because they can't do anything about it.”

Grace nuzzled closer to Seanna, making the most of her warmth. Wiggles got up and circled Grace’s lap a few times before settling down again.

“I am afraid of the demons, I’ll admit,” Seanna said. “And I was scared of the mages and templars that fought each other outside the farm. But then you turned up and I knew I wouldn’t be afraid anymore. You stopped the templars that raided our homes. You killed the demon that controlled the wolves. And you closed the rifts.” Seanna lifted Grace’s left hand to her lips and kissed her palm. “I’m not afraid of someone as kind as you.”

Grace smiled. People like Seanna made this whole situation better. _Seanna_ made Grace’s situation better. Seanna didn’t expect Grace to be anyone she wasn’t. Just Grace. The ability to banish demons to the Fade was an added bonus, Seanna said. That almost made Grace feel normal, unlike so many of her companions. Cassandra’s faith in the Maker’s intent meant Grace was more than a rift sealer. Cullen saw her as a tool. Josephine and Leliana were exasperated with her, that much was obvious, and Grace did her best to stay on Leliana’s good side.

Seanna pulled herself out from Grace’s embrace and rummaged through the snow. “When the scouts said you’d return today, I took the liberty of hiding some provisions.” She dusted the snow off a box and handed it to Grace. Inside, wrapped in cloth, was a small hard cheese--which smelled like it a druffalo had chewed it already--two apples, and a jar of chutney. “First cheddar of the season. Sera helped me. She provided the distraction so I could pilfer it.” She pulled out a knife and set the whole lot on the lid of the box. The cheese crumbled as Seanna cut it, sharp and yellow. Grace’s mouth watered and her stomach flip-flopped. Seanna served it on a slice of apple with a dollop of chutney on top, and handed it to Grace. “To kind souls and safe returns.”

Grace returned the toast, and added her own. “To true friends.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall shows his tells. An invitation to Redcliffe. An old face pops up.

The bird must have flown in while Bull was out on that miserable jaunt along the Storm Coast. Pity he missed it. At least the message came to him instead of him having to traipse out to a dead drop. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to mount his horse, his body was too sore. Damn, he knew better than to do more than two people at once, but he’d arrived back in Haven with an itch that needed scratching and shit were there a lot of takers. He rolled his neck and popped his back before reading the message again. He double checked his decoding, not quite believing what was written on the scrap of paper. He sighed. Shit from the north shouldn’t be following him this far south. The Vints on the Storm Coast had been bad enough, and now this? He needed to act fast.

Bull caught Leliana before she headed into the chantry.

“The Iron Bull. What a pleasant surprise,” Leliana didn’t even look at him.

“Ah Red, you know you can’t resist me when I drop by.” He paused. “Rumour has it the Inquisition wants to talk to the mages, get them on side.”

“How very perceptive of you.”

Bull leaned in. “And a little bird tells me there’s a magister holed up in Redcliffe. Might cause you some trouble.”

That had her. He knew it would. They retreated to her tent where prying eyes and ears couldn’t find them. He had to dip his head to avoid getting his horns caught on the flap.

“A Magistar of the Imperium this far south? Are you sure you’re little bird didn’t take a wrong turn?”

“Sure, mistakes can happen. But not with something like this.”

“How did you even--I knew something was wrong. None of my agents have been able to get into Redcliffe. There’s a rift just outside the main gates, but there’s something else going on, too. I thought it had to do with the number of rebel mages seeking refuge there. It is the only place sanctioned by Queen Anora for them to go. But a Magistar? That spells trouble indeed.”

Bull nodded once. Red was smart, knew when to share and when to hide.

“What are the Herald’s advisors suggesting? No, let me guess. Your commander wants the Templars, your Ambassador wants the mages, and your Herald wants to go home.”

“ _I_ want the mages as well. I can nudge her in the proper direction.”

“I want in on the trip. The big horns back home will need to know what that Vint is playing at.”

“Of course, that won’t be a problem, Ser Bodyguard. Nice work in that tavern, by the way. Cassandra gave me a full report.”

Bull gave a satisfied harumph and stood. “Just doing my job.” Before he left the tent, he turned to Leliana. “So, when are we…”

“Not a chance, Bull.”

Bull grinned and ducked his head as he left.

*****

The Iron Bull proved to be an interesting challenge. Reading him, figuring his intent, unpeeling the layers of qunari, spy and mercenary gave Leliana quite the thrill. He kept her entertained and she didn’t doubt that he knew that. Blackwall too, was a challenge, but for different reasons. He didn’t seem to have any nervous tells. Maybe he hid them under his beard. Maybe that’s why he grew it in the first place. But not all tells were revealed through lips or gulps. His face displayed nothing. No raised eyebrow, no darting eyes, no head tilts or stammering or scratching of imaginary itches. Interesting. That just meant that Leliana would have to keep an even closer eye on him. She leaned back now, allowing Blackwall the impression that she took him at his word. Well, he was part of the Inquisition now and this was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, you know,” Leliana said. Blackwall raised his eyebrow. Skepticism, not unease.

“And you’re telling me this because…” Blackwall leaned back, too, hands gently clasped on his lap.

“I may not be a Grey Warden myself, but having travelled for so long in the company of two of them, I have some idea of the order and how they see themselves.” She waited for his reaction--a single, slow nod--then continued. “Grey Wardens do not trouble themselves with the politics of the countries they live in. Or, they are not supposed to. However, there have been rumours that the Grey Wardens were involved with the death of the Divine.”

That got him. He sat up straight. “Speak plainly. What is it you are accusing us of having done?”

“That’s just it. I do not know.”

“Then why are you, grand spymaster, troubling yourself with unsubstantiated rumours?”

“Perhaps I have been hasty in my accusations.” Leliana tilted her head, conceding his point--or, allowing him to think so. “However, there is no doubt that since the Divine’s death, Grey Wardens have been vanishing from both sides of the Frostbacks. Do you know anything about why, or where they are going?”

Blackwall stared at her, unblinking for a moment before shrugging. “I know nothing of that, my lady. I travel alone. Don’t have much cause to pass time time in larger settlements, let alone with my fellow Wardens.” He seemed genuinely surprised by this news. “After a blight we naturally fade away, out of memory and out of sight.”

That was true enough, but even so, Leliana’s multiple and independent contacts had informed her that the whereabouts of known wardens had become patchy at best. Take Alistair Therin as one, very noticeable, example. So. Blackwall did not know anything relevant to the Wardens’ disappearances and had not been going anywhere in particular when the Inquisition party happened to find itself in the same rotten tavern as him. But he had stuck with the party even once they were out of danger. She asked him why.

He held his hands open. “I see that hole in the sky as well as you and I heard about the Inquisition on my travels. You’re doing good work. I like doing good work. And since there is no blight for me to fight, I may as well lend my skills to your organisation, if you’ll have me. I noticed the commander training with the new recruits. I know my way around a sword and shield. I’d be happy to help train.”

Leliana took him at his word since he gave no indication of telling anything other than the truth, but something in her countenance must have made him think his standing was precarious, for he leant forward, earnest.

“I have…” he started, voice low, eyes darting around. Ah, so are the nerves. He licked his lips and started again. “I have Warden treaties to hand. Never know when they might come in handy. The blight may have ended a decade ago but people still remember. They know the good work we did. Perhaps, perhaps you could use the treaties as leverage, my lady.”

Leliana smiled, sly, then the smile turned into a grin. “That is very generous of you, Warden Blackwall.” She stood. “Come, let us find Ambassador Montilyet and discuss this matter further.”

First the Red Jennies, then the qunari, and now the Grey Wardens. Well, didn’t the Inquisition’s alliances get more and more interesting.

*****

Despite not being able to get messages into or out of Redcliffe, some ravens must have made it through for there was an offer on the table at long last.

The letter was from Grand Enchanter Fiona, de facto leader of the rebel mages. The advisors had all read it and all had a different opinion as to what it meant. It could be a trap. It could be a legitimate call for negotiation. Or it could be something else entirely. The letter was so carefully worded and for Leliana, that meant something was wrong. And with Iron Bull’s little piece of information, she knew exactly what was wrong.

“We can’t send her into a Tevinter trap,” Cullen said. “She’s the only one with the mark.”

“The mark on its own is useless. Without mages, we cannot seal the breach,” Leliana replied.

Cullen snorted. “It’s not that useless. There are rifts all Orlais and Ferelden that she can close.”

“The rifts will be the least of our concerns if we do not seal the breach.”

After more rounds of arguments, Josephine had talked Cullen into allowing Grace to go. Cassandra and Iron Bull would escort her. The party would also need a mage, and someone who could negotiate.

“I will go.” Josephine spoke so firmly that the idea didn’t warrant argument. Leliana smiled. She was the best choice. Too much was riding on this talk to leave it to Cassandra and the Herald. Leliana looked to Cassandra to read her expression. She sagged, having let out a breath. She looked relieved. As brilliant as she was as the Divine’s right hand, she was no diplomat. As to the mage who would accompany them...

“Solas?” Cassandra offered. They knew him best, and he was close with the Herald, but he was still an unknown quantity in many ways. Neither was he a circle mage.

“What about Minaeve?” Josephine suggested. “She was a circle mage and dedicated to her studies. She is a quiet, calm voice of reason.”

“I suspect she has had enough adventuring for one lifetime,” Cassandra said.

“We can still ask, yes?” Josephine asked. She did so, popping out for a moment and returning with Minaeve. She hadn’t even passed her harrowing, but hopefully that wouldn’t matter. She was quiet, dignified, and represented the ideal circle mage. Plus she was curious, collecting objects and items of interest the way Leliana collected information.

Josephine outlined the plan. Minaeve was small and timid, like many Dalish who had been cast into the harsh world dominated by humans. She wrung her hands and her eyes darted around the room, unused to such scrutiny.

“I’m not a proper mage. Just an apprentice,” she said.

“Fiona doesn’t know that. All she needs to know is that you came from a broken circle and that you are loyal to the Inquisition. You will be a good ambassador for the Inquisition,” Josephine explained.

“I won’t have to do any talking will I? I’m more comfortable with my research.”

“I will coach you and the Herald on likely topics. You won’t be alone. You will be have me and Seeker Cassandra with you at all times. We do not know exactly what waits for us at Redcliffe, only that Fiona has reached out, and we must respond. So, an excursion out of the cold of Haven? Sounds delightful, no?” When Josephine put it like that, Leliana felt a little jealous that she wouldn’t be going.

Minaeve grinned. “Okay. It sounds like fun! And if I can see some of the creatures I’ve been researching up close.”

Cassandra snorted. “I assure you, you will see your fill of demons.”

Minaeve looked a little spooked, but eager.

The rest of the meeting was planning. They would leave as soon as possible.

*

Josephine interrupted Grace’s afternoon tea with Solas, calling her to the chantry to outline the next journey. The meeting took far too long. She was glad to stretch her legs, her muscles burning as she ran to the stables afterwards. She found Seanna brushing Faith.

“Just getting her ready for your next trip,” Seanna said. Word travelled fast, it seemed. She put the brush down and took Grace by the hand, leading her further down the stables. “I’d suggest we go for a ride but you’ll be sick of that soon, no doubt.” She let go of Grace’s hand to climb the ladder to the loft. Grace watched and tried not to smile as Seanna climbed but she couldn’t help herself. She followed Seanna up the ladder then joined her in a nook strewn with hay and blankets. She sneezed from the dust, her nose tickling.

“I leave tomorrow,” Grace said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “That’s all I seem to do these days. Go away and come back, go somewhere else and come back. I wish you could come with me. I know I’ve said that before, but it’s still true.”

Seanna smiled and squeezed Grace’s hand. “Let’s just make the most of our time together.”

Grace grinned. Her stomach flipped and she leaned in to kiss Seanna, long and slow. Something to remember her by when she got cold at night. Seanna kissed her back, tangling her hand in Grace’s hair. Grace’s own hand found the back of Seanna’s neck. She ran her hand up, over the fuzz of Seanna’s close-cropped hair. Then she remembered why she came here. Well, one of the reasons. She pulled back and blinked as she stared at Seanna.

“Maker, you’re wonderful,” she said. “But before I get too carried away, I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“Whatever you want, my dear.”

Grace bit her lip. “Could you feed the cats? If it’s not too much trouble. There are so many now that I dare not leave them to hunt on their own. I have food--“

Seanna kissed her, just a quick peck. “I know where the food is. I’ll have one of the boys go out for more nugs too, if we run out.” She pulled Grace close, swinging her leg over Grace to settle in her lap. “Now. Where were we?”

Grace grinned. “I think we were kissing.” She put her hands on Seanna’s jaw and tugged her down into the nest of horsey blankets.

*

The sun had long since set by the time Grace climbed back down the ladder. She wobbled as she walked, picking bits of hay out of her hair. She took the band out and shook it loose before tying it all back up again. There. Mostly presentable. Her stomach rumbled. Dinner in the chantry with Josephine and Cullen and Leliana hardly appealed, but neither did eating alone in her cabin. In a bold move, she headed to the tavern. Bull would probably be there, Sera and Varric too. She could eat while listening to them tell their stories, then she could go to bed happy and sated, all ready for the long journey in the morning.

Just as she rounded the gates, a hooded figure popped out of the shadows. Grace jumped and went for her knife automatically. A scream formed in her throat but the figure spoke first.

“Maker, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” A young man’s voice. He pulled his hood back to reveal a weather-beaten face at odds with his tone. He looked vaguely familiar in that way that most of Haven’s occupants looked familiar. He bowed. “I heard you were headed to Redcliffe. Please, Lady Trevelyan, I have a favour to ask of you.”

Lady Trevelyan. The way his tongue rolled the ‘l’ and ‘y’ caught Grace’s attention. She peered at the man, took in that face. She knew that face, really, she did. “Cedric?” Maker, could it be him? She’d all but forgotten about the two mages her family had picked up on their way to the conclave.

He smiled, ruefully. “Almost. I’m Westby. Cedric--“

“Westby! I’m so sorry!” Grace put her knife away and pulled Westby in for a tight hug. He felt just as frail as he had looked when she’d first met him. She pulled back and took his hands in hers. His fingers were like icicles. “You survived the explosion! How have you been? How is Cedric? Maker, look at you!”

He smiled again and this time the years dropped from his face. “Look at you,” he said. “Herald of Andraste. She could have no better champion than you.”

Grace blushed. “Please, I’m just Grace.”

“Very well, Grace.” His smile faltered and his expression darkened. “I have… I have bad news.” Grace squeezed his hands. “Cedric, you remember Cedric. He… he left. After the explosion. We heard about the Queen’s sanctuary at Redcliffe from a traveller and Cedric wanted us to go. Said we’d be safe around our own kind. I said we were safe here, with the Inquisition. We had a terrible row. He left and I haven’t heard from him! The things we’ve heard about the road, the mages and the Templars, and Redlciffe itself! I don’t know if he made it, or even if he’s still alive--”

Grace pulled him in again and held him close. He sobbed, shaking against Grace while she rubbed his back. Tears welled in her own eyes but she stayed strong for him. “I’m going to Redcliffe. I’ll look for him and I’ll drag him back here even if I have to put him on my own horse.”

Westby laughed even as he sobbed. “Thank you, thank you. I just want my Cedric back. Please.” He pulled away and wiped his face on his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you again, Grace, thank you.”

He wobbled away, still shaking and sniffing. Grace waited until he’d made to his cabin before continuing on to the tavern. The thought of dinner didn’t appeal any more but she needed to eat lest she fall asleep on her horse tomorrow. The light of the tavern made her squint, the din hurt her ears. No Bull, not that she could see. Not like he could hide all that easily, anyway.

“Kitten!” Grace followed the voice and spotted Varric with Sera and Blackwall, cards and coins covering their table. She wandered over, stopping by Flissa to ask for a meal to be brought to her.

“Nice to see you walking free. You’ve been stuck in the chantry for hours,” Varric said. He wasn’t _entirely_ wrong. “So, what’s the plan?”

Grace looked from Varric to Sera and Blackwall, then around the tavern. “I’m not sure I can say.”

Sera made a pfft noise. “Course you can. You’re the one running this show. You’ve got the mark.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m in charge,” Grace replied.

Blackwall put his cards face down, and his folded his hands on top of them. “So, who is in charge, then?”

Grace shrugged and looked to Varric. Not one to miss an opportunity to talk, he gladly took the hint. Just in time, too. Flissa set down a bowl of steaming stew. Grace ate while Varric talked.

“No one’s really in charge. The big three you see walking around, Red, Ruffles, Curly? They’ve all got their areas of expertise. They coordinate this whole show, as you put it so well, Sera. Cassandra leads from the front and helps keep our erstwhile hero alive. Solas does that too. Plus the Iron Bull. Everyone pitches in, really.”

Grace huffed. “I’m not that fragile!”

“You seem pretty squishy to me,” Sera said. She poked Grace in the arm but her finger met resistance. “Whoa, you’re not squishy at all! You’re made of rock!” She giggled and poked Grace again. “Real muscle you are. Wanna arm wrestle?”

Grace blushed though she didn’t know why. “I think you’d beat me,” she said, then stuck a spoonful of stew in her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk.

“Want to play a few rounds of Diamondback?” Varric asked. “Blackwall here reckons he can’t be beat. I bet you can prove him wrong.” He winked.

Grace forced a smile and declined. She didn’t know how to play and didn’t want to look stupid. “I’ll just watch, if it’s all the same.”

They started playing again and once Grace had finished her stew, she made her excuses and retired to her cabin. Wiggles II sat on the bed fast asleep so Grace inched her way under the covers, careful not to disturb him.

*

By the time they’d made it to Redcliffe, Grace’s nerves were frayed along with her temper. Cassandra had set a punishing speed all the way from Haven. She hadn’t found rest in her sleep, either. The straw mattress she’d slept on in the Crossroads Inn felt like it had rats living in it and the blankets in camps along the way failed to keep her warm, stiffening her already sore muscles. Her bottom ached from riding the horse. Josephine and Minaeve traveled without complaint, so Grace tried to as well.  And finally, to add to the pain, a massive rift right outside Redcliffe’s main gate pulsed and spat out demons at a ferocious rate. This rift was different though. Time seemed to… bend somehow, slowing down and speeding up. One moment felt like swimming through soup, the next like flying up high with the birds. Her hand tingled and zapped as she held it up to close the rift.

A cheer went up from the other side of the gate. It creaked and groaned, like it hadn’t been raised for months.

One of Leliana’s agents rushed up. “Thank the Maker you’re here,” she said. “We’ve been trapped for weeks. That rift stopped us from getting out and the Magister who ran Bann Teagan out of the castle commandeered all the boats.” She took a deep breath, clearly not finished. “It’s been awful Truly awful. The mages…” She shuddered.

Cassandra and Josephine traded glances and Iron Bull grumbled. Before Grace could give a polite reply, another messenger came up. This one was elven, well dressed in clothes that were not Ferelden or Orlesian.

“Welcome to Redcliffe, Herald of Andraste. Such a pleasure to have you here.” Charm oozed out of him like pus. “Magister Alexius will be so glad to see you. He is, unfortunately, predisposed at the moment. But you’re welcome to make yourselves at home and speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona in the meantime.”

Josephine thanked him and lead the group into the village, Leliana’s scout acting as guide and taking the horses from their hands, then Cassandra pulled Grace off to the side.

“Leliana warned me about a magister. This is wrong. He shouldn’t be here. We must tread carefully.”

The urgency in her tone caught Grace off guard. She looked to Josephine and Iron Bull.

“A Tevinter Magister and desperate mages. This does not bode well at all,” Josephine said.

Bull just muttered something under his breath and shot Grace a warning look. Tension coiled in Grace’s stomach. Well that was all very comforting. So much for friendly talks leading to a diplomatic alliance. Thank the Maker Josephine was here. Grace herself would show her hand if the need arose, deny any claims to holiness or being chosen, and be as quiet as possible.

As they walked through the village, uneasiness seeped out of the ground and hung in the air. Too many people looked out of place. They must’ve been the rebel mages, rather than locals. Everyone looked on edge, unhappy. Those who looked up and saw Grace either gasped and spat curses, or fell to their knees in benevolent prayer. She tried to look for Cedric but couldn’t escape the haunting eyes that followed her. She slipped right behind Cassandra so she wouldn't have to look at anyone else.

Bull suggested they wander around, peruse the shops. “No need to rush to the Grand Enchanter or the Vint. Let them think that we’ve got other business here too. Let’s look around. Ask a few questions.”

Josephine nodded and led the party through the village, down to the docks. While there were boats tied up, no one tended them, and the people milling about didn’t seem keen to steal back what was theirs.

Everyone they spoke to wrung their hands and looked over their shoulders like they were expecting trouble. “I really shouldn’t be talking to you,” they’d say. “Magister Alexius doesn’t like it when we speak to people.” Cassandra would thank them for their time while Grace would try not to notice the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

While Cassandra spoke to a fisherman at the docks, Bull pulled Grace aside.

“I don’t like this, Boss. This is worse than I thought,” he said, voice low.

“You knew about this?” Grace asked, surprised.

“Yeah. Sorta. Red knew too.”

“But--”

“It’s all right. I’ve got your back. Just be on your guard. I’m here and I’m watching. Not much slips past me.”

That comforted Grace a little. Still, would’ve been nice for her advisors to have given her the full details. Was she just supposed to trust that they had her best interests at heart? They needed her alive, so she supposed she’d just have to accept that they knew best.

“Psst.”

Grace looked around, as did Cassandra, Bull, and Josephine. No one to be seen.

“ _Pssst_. Over here.”

 _Over here_ was behind a shrubby bush, of all things. Could hide one man, but not several. Cassandra motioned for the group to stay put. She walked up to the man behind the shrub. They exchanged hissed whispers, then Cassandra beckoned Grace over. She tiptoed up, reluctant to leave Bull’s side.

“This man is a local,” Cassandra said to Grace. She turned back to him. “Tell me what is happening here in Redcliffe.”

The man was large but he had the features of a squirrel. “The mages came. Arl Teagan invited them since they had nowhere else to go after that Enchanter lady said they weren’t going back to the Circles. All fools, I thought. The lot couldn’t hardly do anything for themselves. We let them in though and they didn’t cause trouble. But then the magister came. He had the Arl removed from the castle, said everything was fine. None of us believe him though. I’m just waiting for the abominations. You know what Tevinters are like.” He licked his lips and glanced around. “I best be off,” he said.

“Wait!” Grace caught his arm before he could run away. “There’s a mage here, called Cedric. Do you know him? Or know where I could find him?”

The man blinked. “Can’t says I’ve gotten to know any of them. There’s a chantry woman though. She’s friendly with them.” He gave directions then disappeared before Grace could thank him properly.

She turned to Josephine. “I need to find Cedric.”

“Who is he?” Josephine asked.

“He’s a friend.”

Josephine nodded. “Very well. Let us find your friend.”

The group wandered through the village until they found the sister who matched the squirrely man’s description. She eyed the newcomers with suspicion. Grace took a deep breath and broke out from her companions’ circle.

“I’m Grace Trevelyan,” she said. “A kind man in the village said you are helping care for the mages. Would be able to help me? I’m looking for a mage called Cedric.”

The sister’s face softened then fell. “Cedric. Yes, I know him.”

Grace brightened. “Please, can you tell me where to find him?”

“The mages… they aren’t free. Maker, guide me.” The sister seemed to talk to herself, muttering under her breath. “Cedric is… unwell. I could take you to him, I suppose.”

Grace thanked the sister and started following her. She looked back to see her companions following too. Josephine and Minaeve looked confused while Cassandra looked annoyed. Bull was as impassive as he always was when in a new place.

The infirmary was an overcrowded hut overlooking the lake. The sickly sweet stench caught in Grace’s nose as soon as the sister pushed the door open. She fought the urge to retch. Underneath the sickness came the sharp tang of concentrated elfroot.

“They’re not using healing magic?” she asked.

“No. The magister won’t allow it.”

Not allowed? But these people were sick! Too sick for elfroot to do much good. Before she could question the order, the sister stopped in front of a pallet in the corner of the cabin. There lay Cedric, his skin all yellowed and grey. The sister nodded to Grace then stepped back.

Grace knelt down, unsure of what to say. Cedric met her eyes, shivering and fearful. “Cedric. Do you remember me?”

He nodded, looking like his head might fall off. “Young Trevelyan,” he whispered.

“What are you doing here?” Her eyes welled up. “Why did you leave Haven?”

“Wanted to be free.” His voice shook, a leaf trying to hold onto its tree.

“Westby misses you.”

A tear rolled from the corner of Cedric’s eye, down to the stinking blankets he lay on. He nodded again.

“I’m going to take you home,” Grace said.

Cedric moved his head from side to side.

“Yes. I’m taking you all back to Haven with me.”

Cedric smiled. Or, tried to smile. His lips peeled back to reveal yellow teeth. He coughed and Grace realised he was laughing. “We’re not yours to take.”

Grace sat back. No point arguing with a man as stubborn as this. Cedric’s eyes fell closed, his grotesque smile still on display. While she thought about what to do, Bull dropped down beside Grace. He peeled back the blanket that covered Cedric, then unbuttoned Cedric’s pyjama top. His chest was all blotchy with dark reds and yellows with protruding bones. Bull pulled a wad of pink cloth from his pocket and started unfolding napkin-sized pieces. He lay them over Cedric’s chest then sprinkled them with liquid elfroot. Gently, so as not to hurt Cedric, he pressed the damp cloths down, then buttoned the top, and finally pulled the blanket back up.

“Stitches’ special poultice,” Bull said. “So strong it can make the dead come back to life. Well, almost.” He stood and held his hand out for Grace. “Come on. Not much we can do for him now. Let’s go to this meeting and when we’re done, we can come see how he’s doing.”

Grace nodded. She went to leave but saw that Bull was the only one with her. “Where are the others?”

“Waiting outside. Josephine came in but looked like she was gonna chuck, so Cass and Minaeve took her back out.”

Josephine still didn’t look well when Grace met her outside. She smiled though. “Shall we see what the Grand Enchanter has to say?”

Grace followed, more concerned about what she would tell Westby than whatever the Grand Enchanter had to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought we'd be meeting Dorian in this chapter but it got close to 10k words after my editing increased the word count instead of cutting it back, so I split the it in half. I couldn't leave out Cedric and Westby!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiations in Redcliffe go worse than expected.

The Gull and Lantern smelled only lightly of stale straw and spilt beer. Better than that dump at the Crossroads. Pity about all the mages. Bull cast his gaze around the tavern as they walked in, assessing the clientele, exits, threats potential and actual. This whole place felt wrong. The way the air smelled, felt… sharp and fuzzy at the same time. Like if he reached out, his hand might bump up against something that wasn’t there. Took him right back to Seheron. Minaeve looked uncomfortable too. She kept putting her hand out, twisting her wrist and frowning.

She tugged on Josephine’s sleeve and the group gathered around. “I can’t cast any magic. It’s like there’s a barrier but not the type that Templars use.”

“Is that what the sister meant when she said the mages couldn’t use healing magic?” Grace asked.

Minaeve shrugged. “I don’t like it, whatever it is.”

Bull caught Cassandra’s eye. She raised her eyebrow and Bull nodded. Right. Be on guard. The patrons glanced away whenever Bull made eye contact. Scared, suspicious. Natural, really. But combined with how weird this place felt…

One drinker here didn’t look terrified to see a hulking qunari wandering through. So that was his local guy. Elf, not surprising. Most viddathari were. He didn’t look away when Bull spotted him. They exchanged a glance that hopefully set up an entire plan to meet after dark and swap intel. Hard to tell with glances like that, sometimes. He’d have to wait and see. This guy would only be the local contact. There’d be someone else, another Ben Hassrath, embedded within the fabric of Ferelden with access to a closely guarded piece of magic that linked the spy to Par Vollen. Bull would have to go find them and this viddathari would most likely know where they were.

A robed mage with an air of authority strode over with a stern expression. “Seeker Pentaghast, Ambassador Montilyet.” She turned to the Boss and looked her up and down with a sneer. “Lady Trevelyan. This way.”

Right, so the rebel mage official position was clear on the Hearld’s status.

Bull didn’t like where they were lead. Three walls so close together he couldn’t swing an axe. Ceiling low enough for his horns to brush. A candle-laden chandelier above the only table was in a prime position to fall. All in all, a shit place for a fight. Not that he expected one, but he tended to expect the worst in most situations.

A small elf stood at the far end of the table, flanked by a taller and lankier human. Both in mage robes. Both tired.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona. It is a pleasure,” Cassandra said in a tone that indicated no pleasure whatsoever.

“Seeker Cassandra. Ambassador Montilyet.” The elf, Fiona, bowed. Nothing she wore, not even her pose indicated that she held such a prestigious position. Though, given what they’d heard so far, that position was no longer so prestigious. “You are both a long way from home.”

“As are you,” Josephine replied.

Bull watched the exchange with amusement. All this posturing reminded him of being back home. Grace said nothing as the three women spoke. Her head turned from one speaker to the other, brows furrowed as she followed along. She did better one on one, when she had time to think and already understood the issue. Like with the Cedric guy. Bull didn’t know how Grace knew him, but she obviously cared for him. Even with the poultices, Bull wasn’t sure he’d survive. He must’ve been sick for a long time.

“This is the so called Herald of Andraste?” Fiona asked. Like the previous mage, she looked the Boss up and down, the disdain little covered.

“Allow me to introduce Lady Grace Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Josephine said. “She has the mark that can seal rifts but lacks the magical power needed to seal the breach.”

“Can she speak for herself?”

Grace startled, gave a wide smile and a bow. Looked like she was stalling for time. When she stood straight again, she had a little more control over her features. “It’s a pleasure, Grand Enchanter. My family are great Chantry supporters.”

“I don’t care for the chantry,” Fiona replied. “Or your family.”

Grace’s smile froze in place, a rictus grin.

Josephine sat, inviting the others to do the same. Grace and Minaeve sat either side of her, as they had planned. Bull and Cassandra took up positions on their flanks, standing nonchalant but alert.

“Please, Grand Enchanter,” Josephine implored. “We are not here to impart blame. We cannot change what has happened. We can only move forward. We come seeking your help. You lead the loyal mages--”

“Some would call us rebels.”

“Some call _us_ rebels but we do not let such petty name calling wear us down.” Shit, Josephine was fierce. She’d make a good Tamassran. “Please. We come seeking your aid. We need you and your mages to help seal the breach which hangs over us all. Peace cannot come to Thedas, or justice to mages, until that tear in the sky is healed.”

For the first time, the fire went out of Fiona’s eyes. She looked… chagrined as she shifted on her feet. She glanced at the ground before holding her chin high.

“Myself and my loyal mages have allied ourselves with a Magister of the Tevinter Imperium.”

The group fell into stunned silence. Sounded like the whole tavern had shut down, too, though they couldn’t have heard the conversation.

“You’ve _what?_ ” Cassandra shouted.

Ah, shit. This was worse than what Bull had thought.

“As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.” Fiona wrung her hands as she spoke.

_Indentured?_ Even worse. _This_ was why mages couldn’t be trusted. Didn’t know their own power. Didn’t appreciate what could happen when a bunch got together and started scheming. If the qun did anything right, the collaring and leashing of the _sarebaas_ was it.

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. Josephine pursed her lips. Grace stood stock still. Minaeve’s jaw hit the floor.

“All hope died with Justinia. I needed to save as many of my people as possible.” Anger bubbled in Fiona’s voice. She pointed a finger at Grace. “You,” she sneered, “you are the reason I had to make this deal.”

Grace snapped back like that finger had shot an arrow straight through her chest. Bull put his hand out to steady her, a palm between her shoulderblades. As furious as he was, he couldn’t let his temper show. Not now. He needed to keep his eye and ears open.

The door to the tavern swung open and all attention swiveled to the man swaggering in like he owned the place. Fucking Vints. Even without the swagger it was clear where he was from. All those Magisters dressed the same: points like dragon teeth sticking up from their robes, menacing reds and blacks swirling around like great columns of bloody fire.

Those sitting now stood. Bull and Cassandra shared a scowl and closed the gap around Grace.

“Greetings, Inquisition. If I’d known such an esteemed group would be visiting, I’d’ve rolled out the red carpet.” Smarmy prick, too. They all were.

No one looked convinced or sold on the guy. Bull’s fingers itched to swing his great axe.

“As I’m sure the Grand Enchanter has told you, the Southern mages are now under my command.” He stepped right into Grace’s space. He only stood as tall as her. His beady eyes peered into hers but she didn’t flinch. _Good work, Boss_. “And you are the survivor, yes? The one from the conclave? Interesting.” He looked down at Grace’s gloved hand, reached out for it but Grace tightened it into a fist and pulled away.

He stepped back, eyed the whole party. Another man, younger, slipped in beside him. Son, probably. They had the same nose and eyes. This young one looked softer.

“I am Grace Trevelyan. This is Ambassador Montilyet, Seeker Pentaghast, and Researcher Minaeve.” Grace announced. “And you are?” Such conviction.

The man smirked, all evil looking, “Please, excuse my manners. I am Magister Gereon Alexius Come, let us sit.” He strode over to Fiona’s end of the table, his son following.

Grace did not take a seat. Neither did the other women.

“Tell us of this alliance you’ve made,” Josephine said.

“Ah yes. The alliance.”  He smirked as he explained the terms. Fiona and her mages, including the apostates running free out in the wild were to become full members of the Tevinter Imperium--but only after ten years of service to Magister Alexius. Indentured servitude. Nothing short of slavery. These mages had given up their freedom. For what? Nothing. Why would Fiona _do_ this?

“Divine providence brought me here just in the nick of time,” he said.

Bull didn’t need a good nose to smell the shit in that. Plus there was no way the Arl and his men left of their own volition.

Grace spoke up. “I can seal rifts, but I can’t seal the breach alone. I need mages.” Her confidence was impressive given that she’d renounced all desire to do any talking, but the plan had gone so off course that none of the old agreements stood any more.

“You want _my_ mages? And what do I get in return?” Alexius asked with a curl to his lips.

“Nothing. You’ll do this for the good of Thedas, out of the kindness of your heart.”

Bull stifled a smile. Brave move. Of course Alexius laughed in her face but Grace stood her ground.

“I’m sure we can negotiate a more mutual arrangement. Felix,” he turned to the man beside him, placing his hand on his shoulder. He turned back to Grace. “This is my son, Felix. Would you fetch the scribe for us, please. We will need a record of these negotiations.”

Felix bowed, hurrying out from his father’s grasp. He was scared. Good. They could use him, if they could get their hands on him.

Alexius took the time to prattle. As Bull listened, he remembered why he had hated Seheron so much. The fighting, the chaos, all because of people like this Magister. Oh sure, he loved fighting, loved _killing_ , the taste of blood on his axe. Oh yes. But the killing he did now was more often on his own terms than on those of his superiors. They were too far away to keep him close, and while he acted on their orders, he could do so the way he wanted to. Made a nice change.

Felix returned with a scribe in tow but he didn’t look so well. ‘Peeky’ Bull’s Tama would say. Felix stumbled into Grace as he passed, pushing her against Bull, muttering apologies.

“Felix! My boy!” Alexius jumped to his feet but Felix recovered before father could reach son.

“Father. I’m fine, really. Just a turn.”

All the shrewd hardness of Alexius melted away before his son’s collapse. Even better. That meant they both had a weakness to exploit.

“I’m sorry, Herald. We shall have to conduct these negotiations another time. I will send my terms to you.” Alexius lead Felix out, coddling him the whole way.

Once the door closed, the tavern chat started back up and the group looked at each other. Fiona looked sick and guilty, hopelessly out of her depth. The Inquisition group ignored her. Grace wore a frown, her fist clenched. She had something. Bull could see a corner of paper just poking out. Well well well, the boy had a few tricks up his sleeve.

“Please, let’s leave,” Grace whispered. “I need fresh air.”

Only when Grace turned to leave did Bull realise he’d kept his hand on her back the whole time.

“Wait!” Minaeve darted over to a mage standing in a corner, expression blank. From Minaeve’s sorry smile, she recognised him, but his face remained blank even as he spoke with her. She beckoned Josephine over while Bull, Cassandra, and Grace made their way out under the watchful gaze of the tavern’s patrons.

Outside, Grace uncrumpled the note. Just one line, from what Bull could see. She passed it to Cassandra, who said it was likely a trap. Bull agreed but patted the handle of his axe.

Minaeve and Josephine joined the group, Minaeve arguing in a whisper. Bull couldn’t hear her but her quivering rage told him exactly what mood she was in.

“What is wrong?” Cassandra asked.

The group closed around the pair and Josephine explained. There was mage in the tavern, a tranquil that Minaeve knew from her Circle. She wanted to take him with her back to Haven. He could help her with his research.

“He’s tranquil!” Minave said, voice wobbling. “He can’t do any magic. He’s useless to that man. Why can’t we take him?”

Josephine sighed the sigh of someone who had recently had this conversation. “We are not in a position to take whoever we want. Not when we do not understand the full extent of this contract.”

“But--“

“Minaeve.” Grace stepped forward and put her hand on Minaeve’s shoulder. “We will bring all of these mages back to Haven with us, but not yet. It’s too dangerous for everyone. We don’t know what power Alexius has. Please. Trust Josephine.”

Minaeve nodded, bottom lip still wobbling. Bull had to hand it to Grace, that was quite the speech. Cassandra conferred with Josephine and the group headed towards the chantry, where Felix’s note promised there would be help against the Vint. Bull took up the rear and saw that Grace held Minaeve’s hand the whole way.

*

Oh joy. Demons in the Chantry. Even Dorian could appreciate the sacrilege of this little turn of events. He could fight demons all day, well, almost all day, but he couldn’t seal the rift that they kept pouring out of. How it’d formed here in the nave, he didn’t know. Just his bad luck he supposed. There he was, sitting in the pews like a good little Andrastian, waiting for this Herald to turn up, and bam! Demons everywhere! Hard buggers to set on fire, too.

He heard a creak behind him. He glanced back to see the door open and four, no… five people walk in, one with a green glowing hand. And one of them was a qunari. How wonderful. If he could swing that axe, his presence didn’t matter. Dorian shook off his distaste to focus on the situation at hand.

“Good! You’re finally here. Now help me close this, would you?” Dorian called.

Three of the group launched into the fight while the other two went and hid behind an overturned pew. One of the fighters bore the green mark. Soon enough, the demons had been dispatched through an economic use of force. Dorian watched, fascinated, as the Herald held her hand up to the rift. The green spluttered and contracted, then exploded. His unnerving connection with the Fade slipped away.

He walked over but stopped short of grabbing the Herald’s wrist. He ducked his head, trying to get a look at her palm, instead. She wore leather gloves but that was not enough to contain the magic.

“Fascinating. How does that work? You don’t even know, do you. You just wiggle your fingers.”

She said nothing. Just looked at her gloved hand like she’d never seen it before. She extended her right hand to Dorian. “I’m Grace Trevelyan. I received your note. Pleased to meet you.”

The two absentees crept out and joined the three fighters. Lady Trevelyan introduced her companions with a stilted hand. Ambassador, Seeker, researcher, and guard.

Dorian shook her hand. “My apologies, Lady Trevelyan. With all that demon business I have neglected to introduce myself. I am Dorian of House Pavus, previously of Minrathous, presently of… wherever my feet take me.”

The qunari stepped up, a scowl marring what was otherwise a… no. He was ugly no matter how you looked at him. “Another Vint,” he said to the Herald. “Watch yourself Boss. The prettiest ones are always the worst.”

Dorian took in the expressions of the other companions. He had his work cut out for him. “Lovely of you to keep such suspicious friends. But I can understand that, given the circumstances. Let me see.” He thumbed his chin. “You’ve already met Magister Alexius and figured out he’s a pompous arse. Pity. He never used to be like that. But something has happened. Something bad. I’ve known Alexius for years; he was my mentor back in Tevinter so I’m sure you’ll see the value of my presence while you figure out what he’s up to.”

“You don’t know?” The Seeker asked. A woman with a harsh, angular face and a sword that the recent fight showed that she clearly knew how to use. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Trying to figure out just what is going on. Just like you.”

“We came to ask the mages to help us seal the breach,” she said.

Dorian barked a bitter laugh. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Seems strange though, doesn’t it? How Alexius managed to turn up and snatch the rebel mages right out from under you… As if by _magic_.”

The Seeker and the qunari scoffed. Dorian wasn’t deterred. He told them everything he knew, since they so clearly distrusted him. Unfortunately, he didn’t know as much as he wished he did. Only that the magic Alexius used was powerful and unstable. Distorting time itself.

“Fascinating. Many have tried but none have succeeded,” said the researcher.

“Ah, yes. But _I_ helped develop this magic. I know what I’m talking about. Why he used it to capture these mages is beyond me. But I can help stop him.”

The door to the Chantry creaked open and in crept Felix, at last, apologising for his delay. Poor boy to be coddled by his father like that. To experience that kind of attention… No. Now was not the time to dwell on family.

Felix greeted the Seeker and the Herald by way of reacquaintance.

Felix paced, agitated. “My father’s joined a cult, tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the Venatori. And I can tell you one thing: Whatever he’s doing for them, he’s doing it to get to you.” Felix said, addressing the Herald.

Hooray. She’d hardly looked all that confident to start with and now she’d paled, stepping back like Felix himself was the one who had threatened her. While Felix answered the Seeker and the Ambassador’s questions about this cult, Dorian watched the interaction between the Herald and the qunari. She’d almost stepped on his toes, that’s how close he was to her. His arm shifted, just slightly, and though Dorian couldn’t see where his hand lay, wherever it was, whatever it was doing, the Herald relaxed just enough to pay attention to the conversation beside her.

The Seeker turned to the Ambassador. “We should return to Haven immediately.”

Dorian spoke up. “Good idea. I can’t stay here in Redcliffe. For one, Alexius doesn’t know I’m here and I’d rather it stay that way. I shall be in touch, Herald.” He bowed, then turned to Felix, feeling sadness for what his friend had become. “Thank you, Felix, for all that you’ve done. Take care. Spend my last hours here with me?”

Felix smiled and together the two let out a side door, sticking to the shadows. His plan now, so much as it could be called a plan, was to get all the information out of Felix that he could, then grab a horse and head to Haven and try to convince these simple minded southerners that they needed his help.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never really got the whole thing about Fiona turning up in Val Royeaux to invite the Inquisitor to Redcliffe. I just... didn't understand what was happening. Then someone told me ~time and/or demon magic~ and I went, "Oooooooohhh! That's still dumb" so that's why Fiona never showed up in the Val Royeaux chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull's duty to the qun comes before his duty to the Inquisition.

The group saddled up in silence. What a bloody waste of time this trip had been. Grace could’ve stayed at Haven for all the good she’d done. Cedric was still too ill to travel though he was better. She’d told him that she would come back for him when he was better. He’d just smiled the rotting smile and half nodded, half shook his head and muttered something about Tevinter. He’d asked her to send a message to Westby though. “Tell him I love him and I’m sorry.”

Worse, she couldn’t begin to process what Dorian and Felix had told her. She didn’t think she should trust either Dorian or Felix, but she felt like could. They both seemed so open and genuine. Liars wouldn’t create elaborate plans such as Felix’s distraction in the tavern. If that had been to get Dorian into her good graces, then there more straightforward ways of doing that. Maybe it was a Tevinter thing, the spectacle and flamboyance.

She kept cursing how she’d gotten wound up in this mess, still convinced that she must be dreaming. Some dream. But no. The pain in her hand let her know she was very much awake.

Raised voices drew her attention. Bull and Cassandra arguing.

“This is completely unacceptable,” Cassandra shouted. “Josephine, please tell--”

“I’ve got an agreement,” Bull replied. “Take it up with Red if you’ve got a problem.” He drew his horse alongside Grace’s and leant in. “Listen Boss. Bad news. I gotta report in on this Vint shit. I’m meeting a contact out east, but I’ll meet you back in Haven. Might even beat you there.”

Grace’s heart sunk.

“Hey, chin up. When I get back, we’ll talk over drinks.” Bull smiled and Grace’s stomach flipped. He could be so kind, so helpful. But ruthless as well. She accepted his shoulder nudge and watched him ride off. She’d see him soon, she told herself. She had Josephine and Cassandra to look after her, anyway.

*

He didn’t like leaving, not when he was, officially, bodyguard to the Herald. But he was also, officially, a qunari of the qun and the qun came first, always, so he rode away with some regret. He also regretted not having the Chargers with him. Meeting other Ben Hassrath in the field tended to leave a funny taste in his mouth.

He didn’t ride far. Just far enough to be out of sight should the Boss or any of the others turn around to look longingly in his direction. He found a secluded spot amongst the bushes and dismounted. With Crusher tethered, he checked his spot, and finding it satisfactory, sat down to wait until nightfall.

He liked waiting. Enjoyed it more than most qunari, he suspected. Patience was breed into them, sure, but guys like Bull liked to think. Thinking was usually the provenance of the Ariqun. That and talking and talking and _talking_. His tama had figured him out early, got him in with the Ben Hassrath. Even if he hadn’t been sent down that path, they’d’ve figured out that his brain was just as strong as his body and would’ve had him reassigned. That was the best and worst thing to have happened to him. Best, because he had been given the opportunity to serve the qun in the most able way possible. Worst because it sent him to Seheron. He had to go there, he knew. And he’d enjoyed it, too, for the first few years. The fighting and the intrigue went hand in hand. Sometimes he’d have to kill a few people in order to sort out the truth from the lies. Other times he found out the truth, and had to kill a few people as a result. Either way, he got to think and he got to fight. Best job ever. At least until it wasn’t. And then he had a new job and he came south. Now his connection to the qun was loose, a slack rope that allowed him to roam free, but he knew that those back home could tug on that rope and jerk him back into line. Hadn’t happened yet, but it could. More importantly, he could tug on that rope and get a reminder of who he was, and what he was. That rope was his lifeline to the qun, keeping him straight even when he allowed himself to bend the rules.

The freedom he’d been afforded overwhelmed him at first. That was probably why he stayed with Fisher’s Bleeders for so long. Not used to being his own boss. Used to making his own decisions, sure, but always with the qun in mind. Mercenaries worked for gold, and gold was their boss. Only gold was nothing. Just a kind of metal. Prized for adornments and jewellery within the ranks of the Triumvirate, but gold on its own meant nothing to Bull the merc, not even when he worked in Seheron. He quickly learned that in the south, gold was the true ruler, the true emperor and king. You were nothing without gold. That was about all Fisher taught him. The rest Bull already knew. How to negotiate a contract, when to be nice and when to show his teeth, how to celebrate a win, how to acknowledge a good job done. Bull knew all that. He just didn’t believe it was his to have until some of Fisher’s boys told him he was better than Fisher and should he strike out on his own, then they’d gladly follow. So that’s what he did

Once night fell, Bull wandered back to Redcliffe’s gates, hugging the tall stone walls and their shadow. No moon tonight. He wondered what the Inquisition camp would be having for dinner. No decent food for him till he got back to Haven. He got within sight of the gates. They were firmly shut, as he expected. After another long wait where he couldn’t risk thinking and losing concentration, a small, person-sized door opened in the gate and an elf came out. He stood in the light of a lamp, looking around. He wouldn’t be able to see a thing, not with the lamp blazing so brightly. Bull hissed but when that failed to get his attention, he threw a small stone, getting the elf on the leg. The elf swung round and took a few steps towards Bull’s hiding spot. They’d have to move quick, before the guards stopped fucking about and did their jobs. Bull stood, and walked over.

“She’s east, not far. Stick to the King’s Road but turn north at the stand of oaks. Small house,” the elf said. He shifted on his feet. “Uh, she’s like you. Native.” He scurried back inside and closed the door without a sound.

Native, huh. Better than ‘oxman’ he supposed. He made his way back to Crusher. No point starting the journey now. Too dangerous for one. Crusher snorted softly, asleep standing up. Bull wouldn’t afford himself that luxury so he sat down, got comfortable, and thought.

*

The King's Road was wide and cobbled. Must’ve cost a fortune and taken years. Wonder if they used soldiers or builders or prisoners to do the work. In Par Vollen, they’d have used Athlok. Trained and efficient, breed for exactly this job, or Viddath-bas, guys who’d been pumped so full of qaamek that they couldn’t do their old jobs any more. Like Bull could’ve been. Whoever had done the job, it was worth it, for the amount of traffic it took. Or, usually took. The mage-templar war had really fucked up commerce. Vints now, too. Bull passed three oak trees and figured that wasn’t enough to constitute a stand, so he kept riding. Sure enough, not too much further down the road, he found the stand. A real stand. Oak trees, so beautiful. Didn’t get them up in Par Vollen or Seheron. They were such perfect trees. Wide, cylindrical trunks with knotty roots perfect for sitting on. Thick, angular branches made dazzling fractals as they grew out to a broad canopy of spindly twigs. The leaves, bright green in spring and sharp orange in autumn waved like stubby-fingered hands. Bull could sit under an oak all day and just watch the world go by. But he had a job to do, a person to see, a message to deliver. So he rode past the stand and along a grassy path.

He smelled the smoke before he saw it rising above the trees. Too much for a camp or chimney. Couldn’t hear any shouting or the tell-tale clash of weapons. He slowed, senses alert, head raised, watching, listening, sniffing. Crusher did the same, softly planting each foot. He was exposed where he was but he couldn’t risk going into the forest. Too many twigs, too many low hanging branches. The smoke became thicker and the air had that crackle of magic about it.

“Whoa, Crusher. You should sit this one out.” Bull dismounted and led Crusher a safe distance away. Content with a feed bag, Bull left him and crept along the path, heart thumping, axe ready.

From the looks of the fire, he’d arrived half an hour late. Not only was the house on fire, the place was crawling with Templars. Something wasn’t right though. They wore the templar armour, scratched and dented like all the other rebel templars they’d seen skulking around, but there was weird red shit stuck to their armour. Crystals, almost, growing out of breastplates and pauldrons. A Vint came out from around the corner and commanded the templars’ attention. Bull strained to hear but couldn’t catch anything over the crackling of burning wood.

Too many for him to take, especially a magister and whatever else those templars were packing. He had no option but to wait them out. His contact was there. Or, more likely, not there any more. Maybe that was why they’d burnt the place, if they knew the occupant was Ben Hassrath. Templars wouldn’t give a shit, wouldn’t even know what it meant. But the Vint, he’d know.

Finally the fuckers left. The Templars marched like soldiers, two abreast, with the Vint bringing up the rear. He took one look behind him before they rounded the corner. Crusher better stay quiet or Bull might end up with company. He waited just long enough before dashing over to the house. Pissed off and worried, he swung his axe, cracking the door into splinters. Fire dripped from the roof, plies of thatching falling in a shower of fire. He couldn’t see much and the heat blistered his skin. His eye watered and he choked before finally dropping to his knees.

“Anyone here?” he called. No answer. He repeated the call in qunlat, adding his title. He crept through the house, checking for anything useful. Papers, cyphers, a body. He found the body in bed, still under the covers. Head smashed in. At least she’d been killed before being set on fire. Bile rose in Bull’s throat, red madness that threatened to overwhelm him. But he swallowed down the rage and went digging where he thought was most likely. Using the knob of his axe as a wrecking bar, he smashed the floorboards at the foot of the bed. Not hard when half of them were now on fire. He stuck his hand in and rooted around. He hit something, grazed his knuckles. Took two hands to lift it out. Fucking heavy shit here. Must be important. He didn’t bother looking at the lock, just made for the door, which was now a wall of flames and barred with boards. Through the collapsed wall then. He lept over broken boards deft as an Antivan dancer. Just as he had committed himself to the last jump, he heard a plaintive mew over the cracking and burning. He landed awkwardly, dropping the box, favouring his left foot. The meow came again, loud and desperate.

He sighed. “All right, I’ll go back into the burning building.”

Flames licked his pants and he had to pat them out while he bent over double looking for where he’d heard the meow. Under a turned over table he found it. A tiny kitten as orange as the flames. He grabbed it by the scruff and retreated. Just in time, too. The entire western side of the house collapsed in a roar of wood and fire.

Bull shoved the kitten in his pocket and hefted the box with two hands. Awkward, but he ran back to Crusher, chucked the box in a bag, mounted and made a dash. Back past the oak trees that he would so love to sit under, along the cobbled road built by rich kings. He passed the Redcliffe gates, still closed--that magister must have given the guards orders--and all the way back to the last Inquisition camp.

He arrived puffed and and exhausted, Crusher doubly so, frothing at the mouth. Fortunately he was was a friendly face and the guard compliment took Crusher from him and handed him water.

“The Iron Bull, ser. Are you okay?” an officer asked.

He realised he must’ve looked a wreck, especially when he replied with a definite “ _No_.” The officer looked terrified. He took a breath and spoke again. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve been better.” Then, “Did the Boss and the others pass through?”

“Yesterday. Stopped for tea, that’s all. They’re sure at the Crossroads this evening.”

No way he could catch up. Probably shouldn’t anyway. Not in the state he was in. He thanked the officer and claimed a tent. Before falling flat on his face, he retrieved the box from Crusher’s bags and the kitten from his trousers. He’d rest, then figure out how to contact Par Vollen.

*

Bull wandered far enough away from the camp that he couldn’t be overheard. Didn’t need to freak them out when he started speaking qunlat. He was, as far as they were concerned, tal vashoth.

The box contained exactly what he thought it would. A kite-shaped crystal, white and opaque. He turned it over in his hands, watching the crystal catch in the light, little bright diamonds. Fuck knows how it worked. He was never taught, wasn’t his job. All he knew is that special agents had them, guys headed out far away from Par Vollen, usually for missions that lasted years, if not a whole lifetime. Only to be used in special circumstances. Well, this counted as a special circumstance, Bull was sure. Not only was there a band of Vints running around Ferelden, they’d killed an embedded Ben Hassrath.

How to get it working? He wasn’t sure if it was magic or not. Thought not. Only Viddasala got to study magic. Even if it did have a practical use, they wouldn’t let it out of Par Vollen, surely. He cupped the crystal in both hands, shook it, held it up to his ear. He peered through it. Finally, he held it up to his face and spoke at it.

“Hello?” he said. “Does this thing fucking work?”

Nothing. Didn’t even make a noise. He tried again in qunlat. “Got a bunch of Vints up my ass. Could really use some help.”

The crystal crackled and Bull nearly dropped it. “Uh, hello?” It crackled again, light, fuzzy, then a harsh stream of qunlat spat out. A mixture of greeting, prayer, and exaltation, ending in a sever telling off. “State yourself.”

“Hissrad, Ben Hassrath,” he said, rattling off his identification number for good measure.

“Hissrad? What are you doing on this sending crystal?” the voice sounded male but came through high and strained.

Bull related the events, everything from the weird, time bending rift outside Redcliffe, his attendance at the meeting, Magister Alexius’ appearance, the viddathari in the village and his journey to the Ben Hassrath, finding her house on fire, the Vints. He didn’t mention the weird-looking Templars, not yet. Not until he’d figured out more of that for himself. The crystal stayed quiet. He wondered if it was still going but it hissed every now and then.

“Thank you, Hissrad. You have served the qun well.” High compliment, that. Best he was going to get. “Destroy the crystal and return to your duties.”

“Uh, how do I do that then?”

“Destroy the crystal? You know how to hit things, do you not? As to returning to your duties…”

Bull rolled his eyes. Yeah, yeah, smart ass. A thousand questions came to him all at once. He hadn’t been home in five years. So much must have changed. He wanted to ask about his Tama, and if Tama Herah was still popping people’s corks. He wanted to ask about Gatt, and the Arishok. He wanted to ask about how his reports had been received, if he had any other orders, if he could do anything else. But they all stuck in his throat. Qunari didn’t question, not like that. Instead, he replied to the agent at the other end of the world. “Panahedan.”

“Panahedan, Hissrad.”

The crystal went quiet. Warm in in hands. A pang pierced his heart, an ache he’d never felt, a longing for a place he’d not called home for many years. He ignored the feeling and found a large enough rock to lay the crystal on. He drew the butt of his axe down on it, sending it shattering, tiny shards in a cloud of sparkling mist. Perhaps they'd do the same thing with its pair. He knew enough to know they came in pairs.

He slipped back into camp and returned to his tent. The kitten crept out from under the blankets and clawed its way up his leg.

“Ah, little shit!”

It started purring though, and Bull’s defenses cracked just enough for the kitten to claim victory. As Bull lay in the tent stroking the tiny kitten with one finger, he thought about Grace and all her cats. She missed hers, but would they miss her? All he knew about cats were that they’d never submit the qun.

Outside cooking smells wafted by. Crackling logs and the scrape of spoons against pots. Bull’s eyes itched and his nose prickled. Better not be getting another fucking cold. Fucking Ferelden. After this Inquisition job was done, he’d never go east of the Frostbacks again.

“Excuse me, Ser Bull?” A voice outside called. “Would you like some dinner?”

On cue, his stomach rumbled. “Dinner, shit yes, please.”

The Inquisition soldiers were a nice bunch. Clearly they’d all be serving together for a while. They talked shit to each other, giving and taking in equal measure. And they’d been stationed at this camp for a while, too.

“What do you see around these parts?” Bull asked.

One of the guys shrugged. “Not much. Not even much wildlife these days. The refugees have hunted most of the goats and rams. Even the bears.”

“See a few mages. Some stop by with their hands up like they’re surrendering. They ask if we have food. We get enough of them together and march them to Haven. Seems safest. Don’t know what’s happening in Redcliffe, except we do now because Seeker Cassandra told us so when they passed through. Said we might see more and to send them to Haven.”

Bull pondered this. “Seen any templars?”

“Don’t see many of them rogue templars these days either, do we? Thank the Maker for that. Those guys was bullies.”

“No guys with weird red shit in their armour?”

The group shook their heads.

“Keep an eye out, okay? And if you do see any, don’t engage. Retreat and send word to Haven.”

“Should we be worried, Ser?”

“Yeah, you should be.”

He got a few scraps for the kitten and a bowl of water. He’d be up and leaving early, he said. The officer said his horse would be ready. He looked a little sad that Bull was retiring so early, and for once Bull was too tired to play the guy. Instead, he went to bed and thought about those templars and that fucking Vint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing commentary: obviously part of this was written after Trespasser came out. And after writing the bit with the crystal nokia, I'm kinda rethinking qunari use of magical crystals. The viddasala (and qunari in general) distrusts magic and is there to /stop/ magic in all its forms, so I can't see them using them. On the other hand, I could see them appreciating a potentially useful thing and going with it, despite its magic. But because it is magic, the crystal nokia is only given to a very few agents. Also, I figure they're really fucking expensive to make and only work with a pair, and thus rare, otherwise with communication advantages like that, Tevinter and/or Par Vollen would have conquered Thedas already.
> 
> I think I originally wrote myself into a corner with the burning building, not knowing how to write myself out of it. Dorian's crystal seemed like a good way of writing myself back out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Redcliffe meeting. Bull and Grace have a chat.

Grace had beaten Bull back to Skyhold by only hours. Word arrived while she stood in the war room, listening to the advisors bickering over what to do next. The page handed her a note: _drinks when you’re free_. She smiled and slipped the note in her pocket, alongside an apple core and a broken lockpick. She’d not had a chance to change out of her riding gear. None of them had. They’d just left their horses with Dennett and Seanna and marched up to the Chantry. Sweat cooled in Grace’s underthings, making her shiver. Leliana had lit the lamps but the war room was still freezing. Grace’s eyes drooped, her shoulders ached, her feet were sore. Having to debrief Cullen and Leliana was the last thing she wanted to do. Minaeve looked equally miserable. Poor Minaeve. But for a few demons rags and finding her tranquil friend, the trip had been a waste for her. Fortunately Josephine talked a mile a minute. Grace could barely keep up with Josephine’s retelling of the events and her grand, wild guestering. Good thing she had both hands free for once or she’d be flinging candle wax all over the table. She looked so good in her riding outfit. The leather hugged her body and her boots went all the way up to her knees. Her shirt was tucked in and her vest was buttoned down. The shirt sleeves retained an element of Josephine’s usual wear, with puffy floofs of material at her shoulders. They looked like meringues speckled with cinnamon.

“While the talks did not go to plan, we did learn much that we can use to our advantage.” Ever the optimist, Josephine was. Grace envied her ability to find opportunity even in the direst of situations. She’d kept Grace’s--and Cassandra and Minaeve’s--spirits up on the return journey with tales of her own adventures in Antiva. She referred to Fiona’s contract with Alexius as just that, a contract.

“And contracts can be broken,” said Leliana. Grace didn’t like the way Leliana’s eyes sparked when she said that.

“Time travel, though?” Cullen asked. “That can’t be…” he trailed off, as disbelieving as Grace had been. But she’d seen that rift with her own eyes, felt the way it tugged and morphed at the air around it.

Seemed Alexius’ time travel magic must have worked on ravens, too, for his invitation had arrived the morning the party had. For Grace only. Josephine said it was an obvious trap and Cullen wanted to ignore it, leave the mages and their Tevinter dealings all together and go seek templar help instead.

“No.” Both Leliana and Cassandra said at once. Cassandra nodded to Leliana.

“We cannot ignore a Magister within our borders. No doubt word will have reached the Queen by now. She may be shrewd and will act fast, but Denerim is far away. We must press our advantage.”

By force of majority, the decision to go to this meeting and attempt a negotiation _again_ made sense to Grace, despite how uncomfortable Alexius had made her. But Alexius wanted to meet in Redcliffe castle. The castle he’d usurped from the Arl.

“What about Arl Teagan,” Grace asked. “Surely he’d offer us help if it meant getting his castle back.”

“He is Denerim. Like Queen Anora, he is too far away,” Josephine replied, matter of factly.

Grace shrunk back. Well if they were going to brush her off so lightly, what was the point in even being present?

“We need to get our own men in there,” Cullen said. “We can’t just storm the castle. She will die and we will lose the only means we have of closing the breach.”

Cullen’s words hit Grace hard in the gut. She was nothing more than a tool in his eyes. In all their eyes. They didn’t like her and they didn’t want her, only her hand and the magical mark that Andraste, or whoever, had bestowed upon her. Some blessing. From everything she had seen so far, Grace had all but given up belief in the Maker’s existence. If he did exist, then he was doing nothing, so he may as well not exist. She didn’t think Andraste had lead her out of the Fade, either. She didn’t remember enough to pass judgement. But everyone around her was quick to make up whatever they thought was right. Cassandra, while she perhaps didn’t believe that Andraste had saved Grace, believed at least that the Maker had sent her in their darkest hour. Though Cassandra was just as lost as Grace was on why she of all people was chosen. The people all around Haven, the refugees and mages and templars, they gobbled up whatever gossip the could, whether it was based on truth or not. That drove Grace mad. That people would just believe whatever they were told or overheard? How could people be so stupid? That would be something she’d have to ask Bull about. He was good at knowing why people thought what they did. She’d ask him if she ever survived this bloody meeting.

All conversation stuttered to a halt as the door burst open and Dorian blustered in, waving away the protestations of the guard.

“Gracie, how lovely to see you again. Seeker, Ambassador,” he said, addressing Cassandra and Josephine. “My apologies, we didn’t have the chance to be properly introduced last time.”  
  
Cassandra grudgingly welcomed Dorian, while Josephine introduced the others around the table.

Dorian, all bright eyed and full of energy immediately launched into his plan. “You’ll no doubt be planning on how to storm the castle or sneak in. You won't be able to do it alone. I know the way.” He tapped his nose. “A secret I picked up from a book I read. It involves a windmill and an underground tunnel! Take me with you. I’m ready whenever you are.”

Grace caught Leliana rolling her eyes. She was just relieved that someone had made a decision. Though Cullen was still not convinced. “We don’t even know you! You’re Tevinter! And we’d be sending her into a trap! Grace, we can’t in good conscience order you to go to this meeting. The choice is up to you.”

Grace was at the end of her tether but she wasn’t so far gone to miss what Cullen had just said. Maybe she’d been too hasty in her assessment of him. Forgetting all this wasn’t an option so she replied, calmly. “Let’s just go” _So I can get this over with_. “But please, give me a few days to recover from the travel. I need to attend to my ca-- bow. And armour.”

With a decision made and a nod of dismissal, she left without a second glance.

*

Stitches pounced on Bull the moment he handed Crusher over to Dennett. Krem stood a bit further back, his arms crossed and a scowl marring his face.

“What the fuck happened to you, Chief? The others all came back without you and Cassandra said you had ‘qunari business’ to attend. You gotta leave that shit behind, especially when this happens.” Stitches waved at Bull’s burns and dragged him to the Chargers’ camp. Krem followed. The poultices on his arms and shoulders stung, which meant he was more injured than he thought he was. He took a seat and let Stitches rant at him. He tried to keep his boys out of the qunari side of his operation. Not all knew, but he didn’t deny it if asked. Most shrugged and said they didn’t care as long as he paid up. Others wanted assurance that he wasn’t going to convert them, or kidnap them. Only one person had ever left. A cocky bastard, thought he was the Maker’s gift to mercs. No, really, he’d said that. Skinner had wanted to kill him but Bull let him leave with his skin still on. That he never got work with another merc company again was probably not Bull’s doing. Or completely his doing. Depended on who was doing the telling.

A sharp sting pricked his thigh, no where near any of the burns. His trousers wiggled and Stitches stared.

“Uh, Chief? Please tell me I don’t need to look at that,” he said.

Oh, right. The kitten. He pulled it free. It fit in the palm of one hand and made a noise greater than its size indicated. Sparse, thin orange fur and big green eyes. Paws that it would grow into. A tail that stood straight up like a flag pole. Stitches clicked his teeth and Bull knew he’d be rolling his eyes.

“You can’t help it, can you,” Stitches said. “Always rescuing strays. What are you going to do with it? Let it grow up and ride it into battle?”

“What’re you going to call it, Chief?” Krem asked.

“Haven’t decided. Was going to let the Boss name it. I’m going to give it to her.”

Stitches scooped the kitten up and lay it on its back. His long fingers and keen eyes checked it over. “Dunno, Chief. She’s pretty vicious.” The kitten batted his hand and missed completely. “More vicious than any of us lot, anyway.”

“She, huh?” Bull said.

“She’s like a little tiger,” Krem said.

Bull grinned and scratched the kitten’s belly. Grace would love her.

“Think you guys can look after her while I go deal with this Vint?”

“We’ll have her on the books by the time you get back,” Krem replied.

Bull didn’t doubt him.

*

By sundown Grace had caught up with her cats, written a short note to Sebastian, and had her first fresh vegetables in days. She delivered Cedric’s message to Westby, telling him about the magister’s contract, thinking that would be easier than telling him just how ill Cedric was. He broke down and clung to Grace. Together they cried until there were no more tears. She left with a promise that she would bring Cedric back as soon as she could.

Seanna couldn’t leave the stables--more horses had arrived while Grace had been away and Seanna needed to settle them all in. She pulled Grace into a dark corner and gave her a kiss that told Grace just how much she’d been missed. Tomorrow, Seanna said. Until then, the glow of the tavern beckoned, the promise of that drink with Bull.

“I beat you back,” she grinned, bumping his shoulder, making it look like a friendly accident as she slipped into her seat. They had a private corner of the tavern, hopefully far from prying ears.

A roar went up from the other side of the tavern. Sera stood on a table, chugging a tankard to the cheers of the Chargers and Blackwall.

“I hope I’m not pulling you away from your friends,” Grace laughed. Then she noticed the blister on his forearm. Big and ugly. “What happened to you? Are you okay?” She reached out then pulled her hand back before she touched him.

“Let’s just say that the trip took an interesting turn.” He gave a rueful smile. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“Are your bosses happy?” Grace asked.

Bull cocked his head, took a swig of ale and grunted. “As happy as they can be with a Vint who got this far south using magic time travel. So no. Not happy.”

The conversation lapsed and Grace felt a tug in her veins. She just wanted to keep him talking, listen to his stories.

“Let’s talk about more happy things, then,” Grace suggested, sipping her wine.

“Like sex?” Bull asked.

Grace blushed. “No! That’s terribly inappropriate.”

“We’re in a tavern, and we’re liquored up, and we’re surrounded by attractive people who just…” he growled, low, and the sound made Grace shiver despite herself, “get the blood pumping.” Bull scanned the crowd, his eye catching on someone. Grace refused to look. He turned back to her. “Hey, how about you and Seanna?” He smirked. “Glad to see you’re getting some, Boss. Really eases out the tension, right?”

Grace’s blush deepened. Her whole body burned with the revelation that he knew. She went to speak but her mouth had gone tinder dry. She downed her wine instead.

Bull nudged her side, grinning, and topped up her glass from the bottle. “Hey, your secret’s safe with me. I don’t think any one else has figured it out. Red, probably, but if she had a problem with it, you’d know about it by now. Anyway, it’s nice to see you happy for a change. I’m glad you’ve got yourself a lover.”

“She’s not my lover,” Grace hissed. “She’s my _friend_.”

“Uh, you are sleeping with her, right?”

Grace glared at Bull even as she squirmed. Sweat stuck to her skin, making her damp. If only a rift could open up right now.

Bull put his hands up. “I’ll stop. Sorry. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Just, you were sounding like a qunari for a second there."

Grace frowned. “How do you mean?”

Bull shifted in his seat like he was settling into a long explanation. Grace mimicked his move and the damp sweat patches under her armpits emitted an over-ripe puff. Maker, she needed a bath.

“Well, the way you describe it, a lover sounds like a diversion, someone you use to pop your cork. That sound right?” Bull said.

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. He’s someone you don’t want to marry but would quite like to share your bed with for a time.”

Bull nodded. “Like your brother. Not the sharing the bed with him part. The lover part. He takes lovers. Right. Got it. See, in Par Vollen, when we need a fuck we go see a Tamassran.”

“Are they prostitutes? Do you pay them?” Maker. Grace couldn’t imagine going to a prostitute. What would she do? How much did they even cost?

“Uh, no, we don’t pay them. We don’t have money under the qun. Fucking people is the Tamssrans’ role. It’s what they do. Just like being a baker or a spy. It’s more like going to a healer than a prostitute. For us, sex is just an urge, like hunger or tiredness. When you’re hungry, you eat. When you’re tired, you sleep. When you’re horny, you fuck. The lover part I get, but here’s the thing I don’t get. You say Seanna isn’t your lover, that she’s your friend. How come you’re fucking your friend?”

Grace didn’t think she could get more red but here she was, tugging on her collar to cool herself down. Didn’t do much good. “I don’t… I don’t kiss all my friends,” she whispered. “But sometimes you just connect with someone, body and soul. You love them and they love you. So you just… love each other.” She kept her hands on her lap, twisting her sweaty fingers together lest she grope the air.

Bull nodded slowly. He didn’t reply immediately. He looked deep in thought, like he was really contemplating what Grace had said. When he finally spoke, his tone was serious. “We have friends under the qun, people we like and want to work with, just like you. But we don’t have sex with our friends. We don’t love them the way you do. That’s… dangerous.”

“How so?”

“Think about it. My duty is to the qun. If I was bound to a friend the way you are bound to your friend, or the way a husband is bound to his wife, my duty the qun could be compromised, if I were in a situation where I had to choose between my friend who I love and the qun that I serve. If the harvest is shit, for example, and there isn’t much wheat, only enough for me and a few people. In the south, you would hoard it for yourself and others would go hungry and die. In the qun, that wheat would shared out of necessity. People might still end up starving, sure, but it won’t be because of selfishness. We have no ties that compromise our duty.”

“It’s not selfish to love someone,” Grace said. “It’s natural. You love the Chargers. I can see it. They’re your friends. You look after them and fight for their lives.”

Bull face twisted, the first time Grace had seen any kind of conflict in him before. “The Chargers are mine. I am responsible for keeping them alive and healthy. But they’re also a cover. I couldn’t do my work without them.” The anger and force of his tone startled Grace. She squirmed and looked away.

“Family. Let’s talk about family,” she said. A moment of confusion crossed Bull’s face but Grace continued, eager to talk about something less controversial. “Alexius went all soft when he saw his son stumble. He loves him, no matter how horrible he himself is. Doesn’t that mean that Alexius isn’t all bad?”

Bull stared at Grace. He looked like she’d just suggested they fly to the moon. “Never trust a magical Vint. That goes for your new friend, too.” He took a gulp from his mug. “As for family, I wouldn’t know much about that.”

“Are you an orphan? I’m sorry.” So much for light and conversational.

When Bull stared at Grace this time, he looked frustrated. “Qunari don’t have family. Not like you. We’re taken at birth and raised in groups by qunari women, Tamassrans. Not the same ones who fuck us. That would be weird. Although, it has been…” He cleared his throat. “They give us care and shelter, feed us, teach us. Peg us for our future roles.”  
  
“So you never know your mother or father?”

“Nope.”

“But…” she didn’t understand and she wouldn’t, not until she’d had a chance to think it over. Still, she said, “That sounds horrible.” She stared at the dregs floating around at the bottom of her glass. She’d wanted cheering up, but now she’d made herself sad.

“It’s not so bad. I grew up with it, so it makes sense to me. Your whole thing of only being raised by two people? Now that sounds horrible to me.” When Grace looked at him confused, he continued. “See, when we’re all raised together, and when we have all these different Tamassrans looking after us, we learn a lot. Different Tamassrans have different skills, too, so we benefit from expert teaching. We’re all raised equal. There is no poverty or nobility under the qun, not like here. All children have the same food, the same teachers, the same care. We are afforded the same opportunities and we are tested in the same ways. That is what allows us to be so great and formidable. Here, the son of a noble house inherits that house when their father dies even if he is crap at bookkeeping and leadership and treats his servants poorly. And from what I’ve seen, most sons are like that. They are bred and brought up to be pricks, to pick on the weak. Those people disgust me. The qun does not allow those people to exist. We don’t pick our leaders from the smartest, or the strongest. We pick our leaders from those willing to make the hard decisions and stand by those decisions. So when you say you only had two parents and one brother, I pity you for missing out on what I had.” He sounded like he had more to say, his breath caught, but he didn’t say anything else. He took a long drink from his tankard and Grace watched his throat bob up and down. To not know your parents or siblings. To be raised in a pack. She couldn’t get her head around it.

“Sorry, Boss. Didn’t mean to get so heavy.” He looked genuinely contrite and his apologetic smile went someway to making her not feel so bad for dragging him from one awful conversation to another. Then she remembered what she’d thought in the meeting.

“Bull, do you see me as a tool?” she asked.

“Uh…”

“In the meeting, Cullen said something and it made me realise that I’m only seen as the person who can close rifts, and the key to sealing the breach. I could be anyone! I could be a peasant or a murderer or… or a wild bear and they wouldn’t care because all they need is my hand. I’m a tool and nothing more.” Her bottom lip wobbled and tears welled up. Maybe she should’ve stuck to sex.

“Boss, Grace.” Bull leaned across the table, his face filling her view. He lifted her chin and she tried not to cry as he stared into her eyes. “You’re you. You’re Grace Trevelyan of Ostwick. You’re a daughter and a sister, and also a mother to fifteen cats it seems.” He smiled and Grace laughed even as tears fell. “Point is, no matter what that mark means, no matter how it got there or what you can do with it, you’re still you. That’s one thing you have here in the south that we don’t. Individuality.” He took a long breath and looked across the tavern before finding Grace again. “You’re unique. You have the chance to shape the world. Might not look like it from where you’re standing, but you’ve got good people around you. Trust them. Listen to them. And make them listen to you, because they’re working for _you_.”

Grace nodded. She hadn’t seen herself in that way. She’d only seen herself as a boat on the sea being tossed and doused. But she had a rudder. She could steer, albeit not all that well, through the storm. She may be at the mercy of the waves and wind, but she could choose which direction to point in and hold herself strong. She smiled and thanked Bull. He grinned and reached forward to shove her shoulder.

“Good, glad I could cheer you up. Now. I gotta get myself another drink.” He stood and tilted his head in the direction of the Chargers’ table. “Join us?”

Grace went shy and shook her head.

Bull didn’t look disappointed. “You know where to find us when you need a good time. The other kind of good time.” Then he sauntered over to the bar, shouting some obscenity at his boys on the way. Grace stayed where she was, obscured, and watched the carrying on with a soft smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Kinda don't like how quickly everyone has trusted Dorian. It doesn't make sense given his admitted ties to Alexius. We're just going to hand wave that for the moment, which is annoying since this is partly supposed to be plot-hole-fix-it-fic. I will consider a Leliana-style interrogation as something I could add in later.
> 
> Note 2: My god I hope that conversation between Grace and Bull makes sense. It's a wild emotional roller-coaster.
> 
> Note 3: The next chapter is Back to Redcliffe: The Future. Since Andromeda comes out VERY SOON I might leave posting it for a while. Or I might post it tomorrow. Who knows?!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Hushed Whispers time. Off to Redcliffe. Again.
> 
> Warning for this chapter: in-scene but off-page torture talk. Aftermath of torture, mainly Leliana.

The second ride to Redcliffe was not nearly as leisurely as the first. No Josephine or Minaeve for a start. Bull was wonderful as always though, chatting away whenever Cassandra deemed a stop appropriate. Maker, if it weren’t for the needs of the horses, Cassandra would never rest. The three of them made their way to the Crossroads in record time, arriving late afternoon on the third day out and Grace sighed with relief when Cassandra said they’d press on to the final Inquisition camp. That rotten village could… rot… as far as Grace was concerned.

The Inquisition camp halfway between the Crossroads and Redcliffe ended up being quite the little thoroughfare. The group arrived on dusk and were informed that Dorian and infiltrators had not long left to take up their positions. Maker, they were going at night? Grace shuddered. She’d be spending the night in camp, in a tent piled with blankets and furs. Luxury compared to what the infiltrators would have to put up with.

For all their rush to get here, their morning passed with leisurely slowness, though Grace was eager to get going. She paced the camp, checked her bow and arrows, polished her boots again. Bull joined her, slowed her down, eased her fears. Finally, after morning tea, they were off.

Cassandra pulled her horse alongside Grace’s. “We are not far from Redcliffe. Do you remember what you are to say? Shall we run through the scenarios again?”

Grace gave a tight smile. “No, thank you Cassandra. I’ve been practicing all day. But if I falter, you will step in, won’t you? You won’t leave me with him?”

Cassandra’s face softened. She looked towards Redcliffe before turning back to Grace. “I shall remain at your side, Grace. You have my word _and_ my sword.”

With suspiciously impeccable timing, Bull pulled up on her other side. “I won’t leave you either.”

The pair flanked her as they rode the last distance to Redcliffe. They were met by Magister Alexis’ soldiers at the gates and declined the invitation to dismount. Grace suppressed a smile at the soldiers’ shock at such a failing of etiquette, but, as Josephine and Leliana had explained, Grace would need to remain one step ahead of Alexius and the best way to do that was to keep him off balance.

Everyone, rebel mages and locals stopped and stared as the trio rode through the village. People stuck their heads out of windows or stood on their doorsteps. Grace kept her back straight and affected an air of divinity. She made eye contact with as many people as possible, nodding and smiling beatifically. Children waved and she waved back. All part of Josephine’s plan. Build rapport, make friends, be memorable. It seemed to be working: while half the crowd stared slack-jawed at the parade, the other half whispered to each other. She recognised the subtle salutes of Leliana’s agents lurking amongst the crowd and felt almost safe. She had allies here, not just Cassandra and Bull. People who could work behind the scenes, pull strings, drop a few gold coins. Sera had said she’d get word to the Red Jennies too, though Grace didn’t know how she’d manage that. Nor did she know what affect they might have. And somewhere underneath them, under the ground, crept Dorian and a host of Inquisition infiltrators.

“Herald of Andraste!” someone shouted. Grace turned to where the yell had come from and waved. “You’ll save us! You’ll heal the sky!”

Others took up the cry, shouts of encouragement and pleading as the castle loomed ever closer. Alexius’ soldiers had to step in to keep people from getting too close, from wanting to touch their saviour. Grace made a show of annoyance at the soldiers though really, she was glad for the intervention. Bull and Cassandra closed the gap, nudging their horses a head forward while still allowing Grace to lead.

They dismounted outside the castle and again declined to have their horses stabled by Alexis’ groomsmen, offering the opportunity to Redcliffe’s groomsmen instead. Down on the ground, Grace shrank, small and insignificant as she stood between Cassandra and Iron Bull. The castle walls towered above, menacing and massive. An obsequious servant bowed low and pointedly asked Mistress Trevelyan, and only Mistress Trevelyan, to please follow him.

Grace gritted her teeth and politely declined the request. “These are my advisors,” she said with a nod to the woman with a sword and shield strapped to her back and a qunari the size of a siege engine. Some advisors. Fortunately Cassandra's carefully crafted threats were not required and the servant lead the way.

The rabble died away as they were lead under the portcullis and into Alexius’ lair. That’s what the place felt like. Grace didn’t know what Redcliffe castle looked like before Alexius had taken over, but from what she knew about Arl Teagan, she was sure it wasn’t as sinister as it was now. The only people around were guards who all wore scary masks and hoods. Unlike the ridiculous pomp of masked Orlesians, these people looked like they wouldn’t bother to dispose of a body once they’d cut the throat.

As they walked through the grounds and into the keep, Grace tried to look around without obviously doing so. She mapped her way, as Bull had taught her, remembering that the left turns would become right turns on the way out, and via versa. Bull--and Cassandra--may have said they wouldn’t leave Grace’s side, but Bull had also said that she should memorise the path in case both him and Cassandra were killed and she found herself needing to escape on her own. She didn’t think about that part right now, just the path her feet took.

Her feet took her down tall hallways lined with ugly tapestries depicting great hunts and banquets, but not in the Ferelden style. Not a mabari or rain cloud in sight. Just evil looking people eating evil looking food and casting evil, red and orange magic. They went through four sets of tall, double doors, each with a pair of guards on either side. If she did have to make a run for it, she wouldn’t get far, though she might be able to hide behind one of those ugly tapestries.

The final set of doors had six pairs of soldiers lined up, battle axes gripped in armoured hands. They stood so still Grace allowed herself to believe they were statues. When the servant made a show of opening the door, Grace had to stifle a laugh. For the first time she saw Alexius for what he was: a showman. No Bann or Teryn would allow the doors to their great hall creak and groan like a brothel of women all reaching their peak at the same time. It was all show. All meant to intimidate and cowl Grace into submission. So though she was, deep down, terrified, she at least saw through Alexius’ silly tricks.

“Mistress Trevelyan. So good to see you again.” Alexius sat on the throne, sarcasm dripping from his lips. Beside him, Felix stood uneasy, embarrassed, almost.

“Likewise, Magister Alexius.” Grace replied, bowing with a flourish.

Alexius continued to smirk as he lazed on the dias, his legs splayed obscenely. Clearly they were going to negotiate right here, in the great hall, with Grace standing and twenty paces of emptiness between them.

Alexius waved his hand before leaning his head on it. “Let’s get straight down to business, shall we? Last time we spoke, you were not prepared to negotiate for an amicable loaning of the mages I have in my possession. Since the breach grows bigger every day, and since you stand before me now, I assume your advisors have suggested you change your mind.”

Grace stood her ground. Leliana and Josephine had run through this scenario, almost word for word.  _Drop a little hint, Grace. Give him pause._

“I know all about your cult. I know that the Venetori want me dead.” _We don’t know much, but he doesn’t know that. Let him think we know more than we do. He will reveal valuable information._

Alexius paused, startled, before the slick veneer reformed. Beside him, Felix squirmed, but Alexius didn’t pick up on his son’s shift. Instead, Alexius stood and sauntered over to Grace. Her heart pounded but she kept her hands by her side. Behind her, the ring of metal on metal as her companions made their feelings on Alexius’ threat clear, and for a moment Alexius looked panicked. He stopped his advance and eyed her up instead, like she was some common slave. _The mages I have in my possession_. His slaves.

“You’ve stolen the mark and you think that means you’re in control. You are _nothing_ but a mistake.” He spat out the words. “Your power belongs to your betters. You can’t even begin to understand its purpose. But _I_ do. And so do the Venetori.” Alexius pulled an amulet from his pocket, brandished it like a trophy. Maker, Dorian better show up soon. He better not just be one of Alexius’ pawns.

“Father! Listen to yourself.” Felix cried. He lurched, a move halfway between a dash and staying where he was.

Alexius didn’t budge, staring Grace down. Her knees wobbled, skin prickling from fear. A rivulet of sweat ran down her side, hot, searing. Her hand sparked, magic arching out, whirling around the amulet. She faltered, her confidence cracking. She would fall and he would crush her. This was how she would die. Husbandless and in a dank castle.

“Alexius, my old friend. Whatever has gotten into you?”

Dorian. At last. Where had he been hiding? And had he just… silently killed the four guards who now lay at his feet? Swords were drawn on all sides though the number pointed at Inquisition far outnumbered Cassandra’s one. Dorian’s arrival took Alexius by surprise. Their exchange of barbed greetings drew Alexius away from Grace, gave her time for the panic to settle. She stepped back until she bumped into Bull. His hand squeezed her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of Cassandra, who gave a small nod and smile. Another tingle went down her spine--from pride this time, not terror.

The two mages argued, Dorian keeping his cool suave while Alexius’ agitation rose. They’d been friends, mentor and student, Dorian had said. Worked together day and night for years for a better Tevinter. But somewhere, somehow, that had all changed.

“The Elder One will raise the Imperium from ashes and I will pave his way!” Alexius thrust the amulet in the air, magic swirling about. Behind Grace, the sound of knives cutting throats sliced through the din. Inquisition agents, killing every guard in the hall while Dorian cast his own spells. Grace froze, fear enveloping as she whipped around trying to make sense of anything. Bull had stepped aside, his great axe at the ready. Cassandra pushed Grace back behind her, braced her sword and shield for the fight that was about to happen. Magic crackled in the air, fire and static. Lightning snapped from Alexius and bounced off the walls. Grace’s hair went frizzy, she become weightless as white light enveloped her before she fell into darkness.

*

All those of those fucking Vint guards outside the door stormed the throne room, too many for the Inquisition soldiers to deal with. Bull fought, with carefully controlled rage, smashing skulls and cleaving men in two. He didn’t move far from his spot in the middle of the room. Neither did Cassandra. They had to protect Grace. But as he fought he watched his allies die one by one, unable to cut through the never ending attackers. He’d run through the plan with Dorian, Cassandra and Cullen. They’d stuffed those damn tunnels full of Inquisition soldiers. Outside they had Leliana’s agents--all spy-assassins--poised. But they didn’t have enough. The didn’t have _enough_. Fuck, he hadn’t even spotted his own agent. Maybe the guy had cut loose. No, no. He was Ben Hassrath. He knew how to lay low.

Magic singed the air, pulling time around itself. He’d swing his axe at a Vint only to find the Vint already dead, or he moved so slow, like he fought through honey. A mighty crack of heat behind him roasted his back and he roared as he turned. Grace was gone. The pretty Vint too. In their place--smouldering ash. No. _No no no._

Rage coursed through Bull, the need to fight his only impulse. Alexius stood on the dais all smug surrounded by his magic. Fucking bastard. Bull allowed himself to channel the madness of Seheron--not like control mattered now--as he fought his way to that fucking Vint bastard who’d vaporised the only person who could stop this fucking madness. But it was no use. He couldn’t get close enough, neither could Cassandra. They were overpowered, over run. Defeated.

His last thought before hitting the ground wasn’t of home. Wasn’t of failing the qun again. Wasn’t of his Tama. His last thought was of Grace, and how he hadn’t given her that kitten.

*

With the Herald of Andraste gone, nothing could stop the demon army from marching. They poured over Thedas from Tevinter and Orlais, taking no prisoners, leaving no survivors. The advance guard hit first, striking the blow against Empress Celine and her court, killing all hope of resistance in Orlais. The cities dissolved into chaos, mages on the loose, possessed by demons and killing their loved ones; friends, family. No one was safe. No one was spared.

After Oralis fell, Ferelden fell. Denerim burned hotter and brighter than it had during the blight. Queen Anora cooked in her own castle. After Ferelden, the Free Marches. Antiva, and Rivain scattered like cards. Only the qunari of Par Vollen put up any fight worthy of being called a challenge.

The Elder One lead the charge on Haven personally.

Haven. Once a place of refuge, a place for the devout to rest their heads on their pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the ashes of Andraste herself. Haven, the short-lived headquarters of the Inquisition. Haven was no longer safe. Haven was under attack.

Sera died with an empty quiver.

Josephine threw her candle at a demon, setting it on fire and running, running for her life before another demon consumed her.

Varric died with Bianca in his arms.

Cullen and Blackwall both fought bravely, as would be expected. But they, too were outnumbered, succumbing while protecting those they could.

Leliana was captured--alive. She didn’t make it easy, but she couldn’t win and she wouldn’t let them kill her.

The Bull’s Chargers did their best, fought until the Bull’s Chargers were no more.

Solas. Solas. Nowhere to be seen.

*

Bull counted the marks on the wall. One year and three days. One year and three fucking days. He hadn’t cracked, hadn’t revealed anything. His interrogators were amateurs. If they wanted to get information out of him, they’d have to take lessons from the Vidathiss, the re-educators. Not even the red lyrium that lined the walls of his cell could break him. Made him feel funny though, dizzy, delirious some days. Wonder why they hadn’t just killed him already.

He hadn’t seen Cassandra this whole time. Didn’t know if she was still alive. ‘Course she was. She had to be. That woman was strong. She’d make a good Beresaad. She’d be a shit Tamassran, but she’d make a great Beresaad.

Bull’s interrogators had tried taunting him with news from the outside. Telling him shit about how Thedas had fallen and was now in the thrall of the Elder One. He didn’t know if that was true. He didn’t care what they spat in his face. All that mattered was that he not give in. Not surrender.

One day, delirious with hunger, he thought he heard Red through the thick stone wall of his cell. Couldn’t be her. He heard the cry again, defiance mixed with pain. Yes, that was Red all right. He sat up and watched her being dragged across the floor, flung into the cell opposite. Once the guards had left and the silence had become unbearable, he called out to her. She lifted her head, smiling through bloody teeth.

She was gone the next day.

One year and three days. Bull cleared his throat. Time for the day’s song. He added an extra line to count the extra day and started belting out the tune at the top of his lungs. He made it most of the way through before the door to the dungeon swung open. He’d keep singing until the guards silenced him, like he did every day.

“Sixty nine bottles of beer on the wall, sixty nine bottle of beer. Take one down, pass it around, sixty--shit.”

Cassandra and the Vint--the pretty Vint--stood before him while the Boss crouched down to pick the lock. He could just kick the gate open; it wasn’t that secure, but he’d been stunned like a hooked fish.

The gate swung open. Grace smiled at him, cried “Bull!” and held her hand out. He didn’t take it.

“You’re supposed to be dead. I definitely saw you die.” He stepped back, afraid now, really afraid.

Dorian spoke up. “It’s a long story. Involves time travel. Just follow us and I can fix this.”

Bull shook his head. “How do I know it’s really you and not some demon come to claim me?”

“It’s me, Bull. I’m me.” Boss stepped forward, concerned and confused. She didn’t glow red, not like Bull. “Dorian can fix all of this. Please. Trust him.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Tell me something only _you_ would know about me, so I know it’s really you.”

Grace bunched her face up, thinking. “You once told me about a dairy you were holed up in on Seheron. Do you remember? We were in the Hinterlands, passing a herd of cows with full udders. You said you’d been trapped in that dairy shed for four days, with only half cured cheese to eat. Your guts were so upset that you stormed out, spewed all over your attackers, killed them, then passed out.” Grace smiled that sweet, innocent smile of hers.

Bull didn’t smile back. He stepped forward. “I need an axe,” he said, pushing the pretty Vint out the way.

*

Bloody castle with its bloody labyrinth of dungeons. Bull had gotten his axe all right. Punched it right out of the hands of the guard who’d tried to swing it at him. Cassandra, once they’d rescued her, too, had armed herself with a cracked shield and a short sword. Good enough to start with.

Grace could feel the rage rising off the both of them. They glowed red, a menacing red like the lyrium that grew out the walls and out of--she shuddered--Grand Enchanter Fiona. Or had she been growing into the lyrium? Either way, Grace wished she’d never seen it. Wished she’d never even come here, but from the way Bull and Cassandra stalked through the halls killing everyone with barely a sound, whatever they had lived was a thousand times worse that what Grace had been through so far. She’d given up trying to understand Dorian’s explanations about the shift in ‘when’. She had no option but to trust him and hope he could deliver on his promises of fixing all this. So far, so good. And with Cassandra and Bull back, Grace felt hopeful.

The group rounded the top of another staircase and pushed open the door to new level of the castle. The gagging stench of burning flesh hit them. A woman screamed from behind a closed door. Grace shrank back against the wall while Bull and Cassandra stormed the room the scream had come from. Grace blocked her ears and closed her eyes, unable to take any more of this pain.

Dorian shook her shoulder. “It’s okay, Gracie. That woman is okay. She told us where to find Leliana. She’s helping us.”

Gracie. Only her brother ever called her Gracie. A deep pang of longing for him shot through her, for home, the familiar and safe. She nodded and followed Cassandra and Dorian, with Bull behind her. She tried to look straight ahead, but she kept glancing in every open door they passed with morbid fascination. The rooms without sconces still glowed, but from that red lyrium. Huge crystals grew from the walls, pulsing softly. Lyrium wasn’t supposed to be red and it wasn’t supposed to grow in castles and out of people. Through one door lumps lay on the floor, oozing dark figures. The smell made bile rise in her throat. She tasted it on her tongue. She started crying again.

Bull put his hands on Grace’s shoulders, making her stop.

“Don’t look in there,” he said.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Fear gripped her so hard she started trembling.

“Grace. Look at me.”

She turned and looked up at Bull. Heat radiated off his chest. Warm. Solid. Stable. He crouched down so his face was level with hers. The red mist floated away and she saw just how pale his eye was.

“We’re in a bad place right now, a scary place, a place you should never, ever see. But, apparently, this isn’t real, you won’t let us stay here. You and that Vint are going to fix this. Stay strong.”

Grace nodded. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but what choice did she have?

Bull wiped a tear from her cheek. “Say it. Say ‘I’m strong’.”

“I’m strong,” Grace whispered.

Bull shook his head. “You can do better than that.”

“I’m strong.” Her voice wavered but her conviction came through.

Bull stood. “Good. You keep saying that. Focus on your strength. That is what will get you through this.”

They heard Leliana this time. Her interlocutor was muffled, but there was no mistaking her defiant laugh and the dull thud of her being hit.

Grace tried to ready her bow on Cassandra’s instruction but she shook so much she couldn’t notch an arrow. She grabbed one of her daggers instead.

“This is personal,” Cassandra said. Then she kicked the door so hard it splintered, leaving only a raggedy edge hanging from the hinges.

The group fought in such close quarters that Grace couldn’t figure out who was friend and who was foe. A guard flew backwards out the doorway, already dead, but Grace stabbed him anyway. And another. And another until Leliana stepped into the hall. Grace whimpered.

“Leliana. What have they done to you?” Cassandra, terrified, her voice a wobble of fear and rage .

Leliana looked awful. Beyond awful. She had died a thousand deaths but each had brought her back to life, stronger, defiant, but hollow and gaunt. The luscious red hair of her youth stuck out in short, burnt tufts. Her face, her skin, a sick grey, old. She’d aged a lifetime in only a year. Was it the time magic or whatever they’d done to her?

Her ice-blue eyes fixed on Grace and with the fluid prowl of a cat, she stalked over, ignoring everyone else. Grace near wet herself and probably would have if Bull hadn’t been beside her.

“You came back to end this.” She said, voice strong and clear. “I have suffered. We have _all_ suffered. You must stop this future from ever happening, do you understand me? _Never_.” Then she stalked down the corridor, leading the way.

*

Grace ghosted through the castle in a daze, shooting arrows on instinct, holding her hand up when fade rifts needed closing--the place was full of rifts. Like a whole new breach had ripped out from the fade. She drew a relieved breath when Cassandra smashed her way outside, pleased to be free of the tight, cloying, wet walls but outside was no better than in. Sulfurous green clouds clogged her lungs, choking her. Lightning crackled and thunder rumbled in waves through the sky. Rocks floated, huge rocks, as big as houses and menacing faces glared from clouds. Grace dropped her head and stared at the ground, watching one foot, then the other, as she picked her way through the castle grounds. Even the mud looked sick with oozing, bubbling pops splattering with a vile stench.

Dorian had gone quiet, no longer pestering Leliana about what had happened during the year they’d missed. All Cassandra said was that the Elder One and his Venetori cultists were the ones who opened up the breach and allowed the demon army to march unhindered across Thedas. Is this what they wanted? Thedas to look and smell and taste like _this_?

Finding Alexius filled her with relief rather than more fear. All this could stop now. He could fix this, he had to. But he didn’t want to. He was already defeated. All that power he’d won had turned to ash. His victory with the Elder One nothing but deceit. He’d been promised the cure for his son, and that promise, that temptation was enough for him to compromise his morals. He’d been a good man, Dorian had said. A good man doing good work. That such a strong man could be used as a pawn surprised and angered Grace, until she put herself in his shoes. The chance to go home, to be rid of the mark, to hug her brother and cry for her parents--what wouldn’t she sacrifice to be allowed that? Dorian pleaded with Alexius, implored him to fix this madness _for Felix_. Only, without anyone noticing, Leliana had snuck up behind Felix and held a knife to his throat. Grace didn’t stop her. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to.

“You caused this,” Leliana spat. She drew the knife across Felix’s throat.

Alexius reached out, grief stricken as his son, soaked in his own warm, pulsing blood, fell to the ground. Alexius clutched the amulet Dorian needed. He roared, magic exploding from him and engulfing the same great hall they’d stood in, what, a year ago? Hours?

“Defeat him,” Cassandra yelled.

“Whatever you do, don’t destroy that amulet,” Dorian added. For once he actually sounded anxious rather than glib.

One target in an empty hall. This was Grace’s style of fighting. She unloaded arrow after arrow into Alexius, no longer a powerful magister of the Imperium. Merely a grief stricken father. She felt nothing as she shifted around the room. Iron Bull roared, letting out his rage with a series of bone sickening crunches but the magister was more powerful than he looked, tearing a hole in the fade and summoning demons.

Grace knew what to do. She held her hand out, sealing the rift, making herself useful.

Then the fight was over. Cassandra and Bull stood over the bloody body of Alexius, both panting and snarling, the desire to crush his skull written plain on their faces. Dorian swooped in and plucked the amulet from Alexius’ grasp.

“Gereon, my friend. What have you done?” he whispered.

“Forget him,” Leiana roared. “Fix this, _now_.”

Dorian turned the amulet over in his hands, thoughtful. “I know what to do. Give me an hour to get the spell right.”

“An hour? We don’t have that time. Do it now.”

“Please, Dorian. I just want to go home,” Grace said. To Ostwick, Haven, her own time. It didn’t matter which.

The air screamed, vibrated and shuddered, the door to the room shook. As massive as it was, it wouldn’t be able to hold off the invaders for long.

Cassandra and Bull looked to each other, red swirling about their faces.

Bull turned to Grace. “We’ll head out there, keep them off you. You can can fix this.”

Grace shook her head. “No, Bull. I’m scared. I don’t think I can do this.”

He bent down on one knee, held both her shoulders. “Yes you can. And when this ends, I’ll buy you a whole wheel of that hard cheese you like so much.”

He turned, arming himself and walking to the door with Cassandra. They timed their exit between the bone crushing thumps, escaping--charging more like--and Leliana barred the door behind them. She readied her bow, ordered Dorian to hurry.

He set to work, resting the amulet on Grace’s marked palm, holding her wrist. Magic swirled around, burning, fizzing. Her hand shook and Dorians’ grip hurt. From outside, the demons’ shrieking grew louder, sharper, victorious even, as the clanging of weapons got subsumed under horrific cries.

An almighty crack had her whipping around. The doors flung open, the bodies and Bull and Cassandra hurled onto the floor. Grace, too scared to do anything else, trembled, unable to shout, her cry stuck in her throat. Leliana started firing at the demons that poured through the door. Grace jerked to join her, to run to Bull and Cassandra, but Dorian held her steady.

“Stay here or we all die,” he ordered.

All around them, chaos. Leliana overrun, but oh how she fought. She fought for her life, for Grace and Dorian’s lives.

Lightning crackled and a shimmering blue oval opened before them. Like a rift but… friendly. Soft. Smooth. Dorian dragged Grace through. She turned to see Leliana fall, a dagger through her eye, a demon’s arm in her chest.

Grace looked around. The great hall was quiet. Instead of death and burning, incense and candle wax.

Alexius stood before them, eyes hollow, like he'd seen everything Grace had seen. The guards that had been killed remained dead. The doors closed. No scorch marks or pooling blood. Just a room full of Inquisition soldiers.

Cassandra clobbered Alexius over the head, knocking him unconscious. “This is over.”

“Well, that’s one way to subdue him.” Dorian crouched down next to his friend, whispered words that Grace couldn’t catch. Felix joined him. “I’m sorry Felix.”

“Me too, Dorian.”

“How did… where… the guards, there were so many...” Grace said to no one.

Dorian jumped up and took her by the arm to lead her aside. “That went better than expected. I wasn’t entirely sure when we’d pop back. That I managed to bring us back to before Alexius’ guards gained the upper hand was a stroke of luck and skill, I do say.” He shook Grace’s shoulders, her head wobbling like a doll. “We won, Gracie. We won!” He fizzed with excitement as he shook her again.

 “Will they… do they remember?” she asked, but he had already pulled away to join Felix in quiet conference.

Cassandra ordered the Inquisition guards to return to Haven with Alexius. Grace shuddered to think what information he held, or how Leliana would go about extracting it from him. She turned to Bull. Normal again, that big grin softening his hard features eased her own worry.

*

The group trudged out into the evening light. Too late to start the trip back to Haven. Even the trudge from the castle to Redcliffe village was hard work and Grace was happy to follow Cassandra into the tavern. News of Alexius’ defeat met the villagers and mages with surprise, then delight. A band started up and the taps flowed with ale. Many toasted the Inquisition, Grace’s table ending up with far more tankards than the group could possibly drink but Bull rose to the challenge. The party went on around Grace, but she felt like she had wool in her ears. All the singing and yelling dulled and muted, like she was underwater. She couldn’t celebrate, not knowing what she had just lived through.

While the party was in full swing, Grace whispered to Dorian. “Dorian. Did that really happen?”

He put down his glass and sobered immediately. “Yes. Well, no. For Cassandra and Iron Bull sitting over there, that future never happened. But that future _will_ happen if we don’t defeat this Elder One and his Venetori.”

Grace swallowed hard. “Let’s never speak of this.”

Dorian’s face fell. He stroked her hair, spoke in soft tones. “Of course, Gracie. We’ll never speak of this again. But we will carry it in our memories. We know what will happen if we fail. I won’t let that happen.”

“Thank you, Dorian. For everything.”

She remembered something else and caught Dorian again. “What’s going to happen to Felix?”

Dorian’s shoulders sagged. “He’ll die. He won’t survive the journey to Tevinter, he knows that. I asked him to join me for as long as he can. He’ll travel to Haven with his father.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The blight caught him.” Dorian said no more and returned to the festivities. So that’s what consumed Alexius so.

Bull met Grace’s eye, his own glassy and carefree. She smiled, ducked her head down. He’d fought for her. Given his life for her. He’d never know. Cassandra would never know. And Leliana… she’d sacrificed so much without any guarantee of survival or hope. But she’d done it anyway. For Grace. She looked at her hand, the scar. The severity of her task sank in. The breach was really happening. And they still didn’t have the mages they needed.

As Grace stared glumly into her bitter beer, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, expecting Dorian, or Cassandra, but instead Cedric stood before her. Maker, he still looked awful but his eyes twinkled and a smile tugged at his cheeks. Grace got up and pulled him into a tight hug, forgetting just how frail he was until he gently asked her to not squeeze so hard.

He took her hands in his. “May I come home with you, my lady?” he asked.

Grace grinned, heart beating wildly. After all she’d been through, after her victory, here was her happiness. “Of course, Cedric. I would be honoured.”

Cedric gave an awkward chuckle. “You’d be honoured? My lady, if I hadn’t been so bone-headed in the first place and left--I’m sorry. I’m truly--”

“Please.” Grace squeezed Cedric’s hands. “You don’t need to apologise to me. Save it for Westby.”

Cedric nodded. He let go of Grace and slipped away, through the crowds.

Grace returned to the party, bright eyed, the wool from her ears gone at last. Her stomach rumbled, but just as their food was brought to the table, a liveried messenger came up to Cassandra.

“Queen Anora of Ferelden requests an immediate audience with the Herald, my lady,” he announced, all straight-backed and confident.

Cassandra scowled, slammed down her fork, then stood. “Come, Herald.”

Grace started. “Now? But we haven’t eaten…”

“Best not keep the Queen waiting, my lady,” the messenger said.

With great weariness, Grace stood and followed Cassandra and the messenger out of the tavern.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the aftermath of In Hushed Whispers through the healing power of baths.

Grace and Cassandra weren’t gone long. Barely long enough for Bull to scope out the tavern and find a likely partner for the night. Shit, he needed a fuck after today. Too many Vints, too many mages, too many uncertainties. The women’s return from their hasty meeting with Queen Anora didn’t make him feel any better. Cassandra walked straight to the table, sat back down and resumed her dinner without word. Grace’s face was all puffy, eyes red, shoulders stooped. She slipped in beside Dorian and stared into her cold soup. Bull was about to fetch her a new one when she stood abruptly, made a quiet apology, and escaped up the stairs.

Dorian watched her leave with a frown before shaking it off and regaling the table with yet another Tevinter tale. Bull hadn’t gotten a good read him yet but saw the bluster and overcompensating confidence. He’d keep an eye on him.

After a respectful--and subtle--amount of time had passed, Bull snuck up the stairs and knocked on Grace’s door, turning the knob at the same time. It was locked.

“Who is it?” Grace called, voice trembling.

“Just me, Boss. It’s been a long day. You okay? ” He leaned against the door, straining to hear.

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, this sounds like a conversation we’ve had already.” When there was no answer he asked, “Can I come in?”

His question was met with silence and he was about to pick the lock when he heard her tiny voice.

“No, thank you, Bull. I’d like to be alone now.”

Fair enough. He wouldn’t push her. But… “How will Cassandra get in if you’ve locked the door?”

“She has big boots.”

Bull smiled at the thought of Cassandra smashing her way in as he pushed himself off the door. “Sleep well, boss.”

He joined the others downstairs and made eyes with the barmaid. Perhaps he could sneak her up to the room after her shift finished. Or maybe they could head out behind the tavern. Either way would work, he thought, as he sidled up to the bar to make his proposition.

*  
After a quiet day on the road, Grace’s mood still hadn’t improved. Bull had stayed back, giving her space. Seemed like everyone needed space. Still nursing hangovers and dealing with whatever Queen Anora had wanted. The gaggle of mages following them gave Bull some idea of what had passed between the Queen and the Inquisition.

Dorian and Cassandra had snapped at each other while gearing up to leave Redcliffe the previous morning, but since leaving, they’d barely said a word to each other. Grace rode close to Dorian but they didn’t speak much either. Her and Cassandra’s friendship looked to be on the rocks, too. Pity.

Bull passed the time by mulling over the wording of his report. Vints--important Vints, too. Not just the shitty little creeps Bull and the Chargers had been dispatching. Venetori, Dorian and Felix had said. A cult of magisters. Just great. That Vint that had burnt his Ben Hassrath contact must’ve been one of these Venetori shitheads as well. What he was doing with templars was still a mystery though. As to getting his report to Par Vollen, well, no word on a new contact yet. Would take months to install the right person, so that wasn’t a surprise. He’d find a runner and the news would circulate fast enough. Qunari were good like that.

The amulet that allowed for time travel and fuck knows what else had him grinding his teeth. That just… wasn’t right. Fuck knows what happened to Grace and Dorian when they’d died--and they had died, Bull saw their ashy remains, then a fuzzy moment he couldn’t get his head around--more time shit he guessed--and they’d popped back. The guards were still dead and Alexius surrendered. This shit was so insane Bull didn’t think the big horns would even believe him.

Smoke curled above the hills ahead indicating the bleak welcome of the Crossroads. Still, at least it had a tavern, and the tavern, benches. And wenches. Oh, it rhymed. that was a good one. Whatever the Crossroad’s deficiencies, it beat camping.

*  
Grace rubbed her arse as she watched the horses being led to the stables. She should probably have gone with the boy, to stretch the legs more than anything, but Cassandra had volunteered and Grace wasn’t about to argue.

All noise stopped as she walked into the tavern. All eyes on her and the companions she’d brought with her. A few patrons scowled and returned to their conversations, but a couple recognised Grace and came up to thank her with great enthusiasm and spilling drinks for all the good work the Inquisition had done with the mages and good riddance to those awful Tevinters. News travelled fast. She forgot how fast. She nodded and smiled, easing her way out from their grasps and made her way to the bar.

“You lot can takes the upstairs rooms on the left, like you always do,” the barwoman said.

Grace thanked her, adding that Cassandra would ensure she would be reimbursed appropriately. That earned her a huff, and the barwoman returned to wiping out glasses with a filthy rag. Perhaps tiredness and travel-wary bones had strengthened Grace’s bravery, for she placed her hands on the bench and stood up on tiptoes, clearing her throat.

“Excuse me, my lady, if I may. Would it trouble you to have water brought up to my room? I’ve been on the road all day and--”

“And just who do you think we are? Some fancy Orlesian hotelier? I don’t think so. You want a bath, you can go wash yourself in the troughs like everyone else.”

Grace’s smile froze, prickles of embarrassment making her clothes too tight and too hot. “Thank you. You’re too kind.” With a stilted turn, she dipped her head and slipped out the door past her companions, not stopping until she reached a turn in the road, the last of the Crossroads buildings out from view. She slumped down and let the tears fall.

*

Kaffas, what had Dorian gotten himself into this time? Fortunately, Gracie had proved herself to be more than a frightened little girl. Quick with arrows, not so quick on the understanding. Although, she could be forgiven for that for it wasn’t every day one traveled through time and almost died trying to get back to the present. Good thing she had him on hand then. For what it was worth, he’d gained her trust, and while it was clear that Seeker Cassandra was the one who called the shots, he got the feeling that his little adventure with the Herald would help his cause immeasurably. He’d help her cause, naturally. Swings and roundabouts.

Before they left Redcliffe, he’d extracted a promise from the guards--with Cassandra present--allowing for Felix’s safe travel to Haven with his father. Alexius. Nothing more than a prisoner now. Whether Tevinter would disown him or fight for his release was still up for debate. What a broken man. What a _waste_. Dorian shivered from the rage of it all. This was why he had to help though.

The barmaid slopped the tankard as she slammed it down in front of him, dousing his robes in ale. Bloody Southerners. No respect for the finer things. Cassandra came to sit opposite, bringing a bowl of some foul smelling broth. Still, his stomach rumbled. He supposed he’d choke down whatever it was and just hope that stews at Haven weren’t so crunchy.

“Vint. Come with me.” A hand clapped down on his shoulder just as he’d lifted his mug, spilling even more of his ale. Andraste’s tits, he’d have to set these robes on fire. He eyed the hand still resting heavily on his shoulder. Big and grey. Oh joy.

“Iron Bull. Aren’t you a charmer. How about you buy me a bowl of that delicious broth before you try to bed me, hmm?”

“Nice try.” Bull’s hand tightened on Dorian’s shoulder, prompting him to stand. Iron Bull--Dorian refused to preface his name with that pretentious article--lead him out the door and up a rocky, overgrown path. He considered whether or not he should be worried before concluding that ultimately, he held the upper hand. Magic: the only thing qunari truly feared. Even Tal Vashoth would be wary of magic, especially the magic of a handsome and talented mage such as Dorian himself. Still, Iron Bull had him on edge. Never knew what you’d get with those ones who’d run away from the qun.

They rounded a ruin and came face to face with a bathtub full of water. He knew immediately why he was here but he’d make Iron Bull work for it.

“How romantic! A bath in the woods.” Dorian clapped his hands in mock delight before turning on Iron Bull. “You forgot the candles though.”

“Just set the water on fire, please? I need to go find the Boss. That little rogue could be anywhere.”

What to make of this? Maybe there was nothing to be made of it. He’d seen the way Gracie looked up to Iron Bull, how he had a calming influence on her. Even in the year that wasn’t, he stood by her, loyal, resolute. They weren’t sleeping together though. Unless they had an arrangement where the qunari could pick up whoever else he wanted as well. Maker’s balls, Dorian hadn’t been expecting to see _that_ much of Iron Bull so soon after making his acquaintance. Dorian shuddered. Perhaps he was a diamond in the rough. Still, Dorian wasn’t going to play easy.

“Do you expect me to just click my fingers and have that water turn magically hot?”

Iron Bull leveled him with a glare. “Yes.” Then he left.

Right. Very well then. He supposed he could help. Using his magic to heat a tub of water was the least he could do, after all. Not like he hadn’t used his magic to travel through time and subdue a magister or anything difficult like that. No, not at all.

With a click of his fingers, magic sparked and engulfed the bath. A wave of his hand directed the power, heating the water until it steamed. Job done. Back to the tavern. Perhaps Cassandra would be kind enough to buy him another mug of ale.

*

Grace cursed the Maker and Andraste, the Divine, Cassandra, Leliana, everyone. They were all to blame for her sitting here behind a rock, hiding like a child. At least she’d stopped crying, but that was only because she’d run out of tears. The sun still hung heavy in the sky, though the temperature had dropped. She’d wait till sundown before creeping back into the tavern. She wouldn’t be able to avoid Cassandra, but both women respected each other’s privacy enough not to pry.

Her stomach rumbled. Curse her for leaving her satchel with the horse. She had cheese in that bag. Some apples too. Now she’d go to bed hungry and have to wait until breakfast and she had no desire to eat that lumpy, stodgy porridge the always served here which meant she’d have to wait until they got on the road but by then--

Footsteps crunched up the path. Grace held her breath, reached for her dagger--just in case. She forced herself to keep her eyes open. The footsteps slowed. Grace’s heart pounded so hard she thought whoever was out there would hear her for sure. Her fingers tightened around the dagger, knuckles white. Whoever it was had blocked the last rays of light, looming in close now. She’d have to lunge-- _eyes open_ \--

“Shit, Boss. Do you know how good you are at hiding? I’ll make a spy out of you once all this is done.”

Iron Bull. Just Iron Bull. She couldn’t look at him but just hearing his voice unraveled the knot in her chest.

“Hey, I know that tavern keeper’s a real bitch but you don’t need to go stabbing her.” Iron Bull crouched down, not too close. Grace braved a glance at him. Even on his haunches he crowded over her. Her grip on the dagger loosened, heartbeat returning to normal. “Follow me. I got something to show you.” Bull stood and held his hand out for Grace. He pulled her up, brushing the dust from her shoulders with his other hand. She didn’t want to let go. His warmth engulfed her, made her go a little lightheaded, but he let go once she was on her feet and she tried to ignore her disappointment. He tilted his head, indicating the way.

He lead her around the back of the Crossroads, taking a path that avoided the more populated areas until they reached a crumbling stone wall. And there was a bath. Steaming hot and so inviting.

She looked up at Bull, wide eyed, tears threatening again. “How did you-- Thank you, Bull. This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. And, credit where it’s due. Your new Vint friend helped. Magic can come in handy sometimes.” He pointed out the towel, said he’d stand guard around the corner for as long as she needed.

Grace thanked him again. Once he’d left, she poked her head around the corner, just to see where he was. He had his back to the wall and seemed quite content to stay there in the dying light. She hurried back to the bath, pulling her clothes off as fast as she could. She savoured that first toe in the water, the temperature test, the promise of relaxation and cleanliness. This was perfect. She stepped in and slid down, letting the water wash over her. She took her hair band out and inched back, the hot water tickling her scalp until only her face remained above water. Pity she didn’t have her soaps to hand. That didn’t matter though. She scrubbed herself the best she could then lay back and stared at the sky.

Dark blue tinged with green, a few early stars poking out from between clouds. Her hand sparked, but after flexing her fingers, the tingling died down. Visions of the Queen filled her mind. Grand Enchanter Fiona pleading and desperate while the Queen yelled at her. And then that icy glare as Grace babbled a compromise that she hadn’t thought through with herself least of all discussed with anyone else. She should’ve kept her mouth shut but she couldn’t stand the shouting and she’d been through so much, seen so much and knew what fate awaited the Queen if Grace didn’t get the mages she needed to get the breach closed. Cassandra had already indicated her displeasure with Grace’s decision. Grace’s guts churned with embarrassment. She’d panicked, hungry and tired, she knew that. She’d just wanted everyone to stop shouting, so she spoke up. Now she regretted it and she'd have to live with the consequences.

All that could wait though. In the meantime she had this bath to enjoy and a reunion with Seanna to look forward to, plus her cats. She’d write to Bassy, too, though what she’d say, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d just ask him for stories from home. Trivial things, if they still existed given the war.

Once the water had cooled and Grace had turned all wrinkly, she dried and dressed back into her riding clothes. If only she had proper sleepwear to dress in.

Bull still stood watch, like he hadn’t moved an inch the whole time.

“You’re looking better,” he said.

“I’m feeling better. Thank you Bull.” Grace put her hand over her stomach as it rumbled.

Bull laughed. “You need to eat. But not that shit they serve in there. There’s bread and cheese in your room. Eat up and sleep well. We’ll be home before you know it.”

How many times could she thank Bull? He’d done so much for her already, more than what he’d been contracted for, surely. He didn’t seem to have an ulterior motive, not with her. He just… cared for people.

Home, then.


	18. Chapter 18

“We _need_ more templars. With this many mages running around, something could go seriously wrong.” Cullen clutched his pommel, bored of the same bloody argument they’d been having since the Herald had returned from Redcliffe with a couple hundred mage _allies_ at her back. They had arrived in a rush, fifty one day, fifty the next, and the promise of more. Their housing had barely been sorted. Tents sprawling out from behind the training grounds, pegs hammered into frozen earth and already the tracks between them all were sloppy with mud. Not to mention the latrine logistics. Maker, Cullen didn’t even want to think about _that_.

“The mages do not need templars.” Though she was tiny, Grand Enchanter Fiona packed a solid punch. Who invited her to this meeting anyway? Right. The Herald did when she allied with the bloody mages. He supposed she didn’t have much choice, the way Cassandra recounted the incident with Anora. Get out of my country. That was it. That was what the Queen had travelled across Ferelden to say to the mages. What kind of response was that? Everyone in this bloody world had taken leave of their bloody senses. Maker, could no one see the hole in the sky? Evit every mage? Mages without Templars? Pah! The notions were absurd.

Cassandra huffed. “If the mages do not need templars then they will need to learn to govern themselves. You are here as our allies. We will not tell you what to do. You, Fiona, are their leader. Do what you must.” She at least didn’t pussyfoot around.

Before Cullen, or anyone else, could object, Leliana asked Solas what he planned to do now that they had the required mages.

“They will need training, as will the Herald. I have some theories I would like to test out. Fiona, I will speak with you later.”

“Then it is settled,” Cassandra said.

The meeting disbanded with still a hundred questions left unanswered and no real plan. Cullen felt lost in a sea of uncertainty the likes of he hadn’t experienced since Kirkwall. His head ached. He needed to hit something.

*

Dorian shouldn’t complain about his rough lodgings. The hut was hardly a mansion and he wondered about its efficacy in keeping the wind out. That he had a sanctuary of his own was better than what most had. He shouldn’t complain, he was about to, but Felix looked miserable enough as it was. Instead, he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and heated the hut up with a click of his fingers.

“You should probably be subtle, Dorian,” Felix said.

“Me? Subtle? Never.”

Felix gave a rueful smile and twiddled his thumbs. The silence wasn’t awkward but Dorian didn’t like silences. They meant people were thinking and thinking wasn’t always good. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Have you seen him?” Dorian asked.

Felix nodded as he stared at the ground.

“Is he…”

“He’s nothing. Not any more. He said he saw what you saw. Or lived. He didn’t tell me just what you saw. Whatever it was, it didn’t work, his cure for me.” Felix barked a laugh. “That’s why he did all this, joined that cult, fell in with this Elder One. For me. Stupid, stupid. There’s nothing he could have done and he knew that but he did it anyway. Almost ripped the world apart.”

“He loves you, unconditionally. I hear people do crazy things for people they love.”

Felix gave a sallow lopsided smile and returned his attention to the floor. Dorian considered telling all about what had happened in the year that wasn’t, how Alexius crumbled when Leliana drew the knife across his son’s throat. Felix was the only person who hadn’t asked. How he wasn’t curious, Dorian didn’t know. Felix had his interests though, and they weren’t the same as his father’s.

“What will you do now?” Dorian supposed it was too much to hope that Felix would stay and help him for as long as he had.

Felix looked up, steely determination replacing despair. “I’m going home to fix this mess. I will send you whatever I can about the Venetori and the Elder One. That is, if I make it back.”

Dorian’s heart shattered. _If he makes it back_. Dorian saw the rheumy eyes and hollow cheeks, the grey taint seeping through Felix’s body. He wouldn’t make it back in time. He would die, on the road, far from his home and his father.

“Please, stay,” he croaked.

Felix shook his head. “I can’t. You know that. I’m not welcome here.”

“You are! You’re with me! And after that little save-the-world stunt I pulled, I am most definitely welcome. You won’t find a safer bet.”

But Felix had already made up his mind, and like any Tevinter, he wouldn’t change his mind once he’d made a decision. Dorian would have to go this alone.

*

Bull had only been allowed at one war table meeting since returning from Redcliffe. The first one, the debrief with the big three, and Cassandra, Grace, Dorian, and Solas. He gave his account along with the others. Interesting what had been remembered, or, _how_ events had been remembered. No one version of Dorian and Grace’s death was the same. At the time Bull had been convinced by what he’d seen. Now? Now he doubted his own eye and that pissed him off. Cullen frowned, Josephine gasped as she scribbled notes, and Leliana, well, she had a small smile on her face and a spark in her eye. Grace and the Vint were definitely hiding something. When they talked, they said much the same as everyone else, except Grace visibly sweated as she lied, stuttering her way through her story. Dorian was better. After his report, he somehow managed to keep his trap shut, speaking only to answer direct questions, while Grace stood like a dead doll, staring at the floor.

There had been another meeting though, one with only Cassandra and Leliana interrogating Grace and Dorian. Damn if Bull could’ve been there. His curiosity itched something fierce and none of his usual tactics of extracting information were working. Cassandra couldn’t be tricked into talking. Leliana had no weaknesses to exploit. Even straight up asking Dorian what that weird fuzzy time hop was all about, where Dorian and Grace had disappeared (not died, he now thought) and then reappeared, hadn’t gotten him any more than a hoity eyebrow. Bastard. That just left the Boss and she wasn’t taking visitors. Bull gave her the space she clearly needed but he took a couple of guard shifts so he could be close in case she felt like being chatty. But she spent all day in her cabin doing fuck all, then spent time with Seanna in the stables after dark. Cats came and went through the hole in the bottom of her door. Seemed like she was expanding her entire cat care operation to include her cabin.

That reminded him of the kitten he had in his camp, little Tiger. The Chargers had done a good job with her: when Bull had returned, she was twice as big and chewing all the leather in sight. Seeing her brought back a memory that Bull was sure wasn’t his. It teased in the corner of his mind, flitting away whenever he tried to focus on it. Something about that cat and him and whatever had happened at Redcliffe. He remembered dying at the hands of the Venetori, or more the feeling of dying, the deep cut of a blade through muscle, and regret at having not done something. But he hadn’t died. They’d won. Felt like the pages in his memory had been written over in thick black lettering. The original writing was still there in faded ink, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could see bits of words but he couldn’t string them together.

Fucking pissed him off. Still, it reminded him that he had the cat and that he hadn’t given her to Grace yet. While she was away kissing her girlfriend one evening, he wandered back to camp and found Tiger asleep on his bed. He kept his eye on the stables as he dangled a piece of string in front of Tiger. When a hooded figure popped her head out, look around, then loped through the shadows, Bull made his move. He clung to the shadows as well, taking a different, slightly longer route. At Grace’s cabin, light leaked out from around the curtain, a shadow moving inside. He nodded to the guard and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” High pitched, hint of fear.

“Just me Boss.”

Soft footsteps, then the door opened a crack, revealing a frowning Grace. “Bull, is something wrong?”

“Nah, just got something for you.” He began to reassess his whole plan but he was too far in now. Still, he’d give her an out.  “It’s not too late for you, is it?”

She shook her head and opened the door, letting him in. “No, well, I am quite tired.”

Tired indeed. Her hair still had bits of hay it. Bull kept his grin to himself. He affected an easy pose but the cat moved as he did, digging its claws into his leg. She noticed. Damn. Maybe she had a sixth sense for cats or something. Well, no time like now.

“I got you something. Take a seat.” He dragged the one chair in the room closer to the bed and sat, beckoning Grace closer. She sat on the edge of the bed, a curious smile on her face. “Hold you hands out.”

She didn’t look convinced but she cupped her hands. Bull kept his eye on her face as he pulled the kitten out and handed it over. Her eyes went wide, a little squeal escaping as she closed her fingers around the fur ball.

“Kitty!” she cooed, rubbing her cheek against its fur. “You got me a kitten?”

“Yeah. To add to your collection.”

“How did you know?”

Bull laughed. “Your love of cats is hardly subtle. Look at this set up.” He nodded to the bowls of food and water in the corner of the room. “You mentioned your cats back home once or twice. I found this one on my way back here, after I left you guys to check in with my contact. Rescued it from a burning building. I thought you should have her.”

Grace’s smile was the real deal. Her eyes sparkled as she knelt and set the cat on the ground. It meowed, prompting her to pick it up again and hold it to her chest. She muttered some incomprehensible baby talk.

“What is her name?” Grace asked.

“Well, she’s yours, so you name her.”

The cat wiggled out from her hold and trotted over the bed to Bull, jumping up on his lap and settling down.

Grace laughed. “Looks like she’s yours. She’s been with you all the way from the Hinterlands, you say? She’s still young. Maybe she’s formed a connection with you.”

Bull stroked the cat, or more, placed his hand over her, engulfing her completely. She purred loudly, like she had on the trip home and every night since. Then she meowed that squeaky little meow that had had the Chargers laughing so hard Stitches had fallen off his stool.

“I nicknamed her Tiger, because of the roar.”

Grace shifted over and pressed her cheek to the cat, oblivious to how close she was to Bull’s crotch.

“Tiger it is then,” she said, sitting up. “Do you want some dinner, Tiger? I bet you do.”

Bull watched as Grace fussed with the meat and water bowls. Once she’d smelled the meat, Tiger was off, nosing her way in.

Grace sat back on her haunches, stroking a passing cat. That one was called Ash, he was pretty sure. His nose started an itchy tickle. He tilted his head back, snot running down the back of his throat. After a particularly unpleasant sniff, Grace held a handkerchief out for him.

“Are you getting a cold? You should wear some more clothes.”

“Doesn’t feel like any cold I’ve ever had. I hope this isn’t what demon possession feels like.” He blew his nose. “You’ll put me down if I get possessed, right Boss?”

Grace looked away, expression strained. She stayed quiet for a long time, just staring at the cats, picking at a seam on her leathers.

“You died.” She spoke so quietly Bull struggled to hear. “You and Cassandra and Leliana. You sacrificed yourselves in the future so Dorian and I could go back to the past. Or the now. Or whenever it was. Is.” She sniffed, tears welling. She told him what happened, how she and Dorian had fallen into, or woken up in the dungeon of Redcliffe Castle, how they’d fought their way to Bull and Cassandra, red from the lyrium growing out of them, how Bull didn’t believe that Grace was real, and how she convinced him. He smiled at that. And he listened. He listened with growing fear of the demon army, a knot in his stomach that grew with every mention of the Elder One. “It was all my fault, Bull. I saw what will happen if I don’t succeed and I’m so scared. We have these mages to help us now, but I don’t know if that will be enough. We don’t know what we’re up against and who really understands all this magic anyway?”

Well, now he knew what had happened. Wished he didn’t. He took Grace’s hand in his. She squeezed back, tight, like she was afraid to let go. He pictured her with Seanna, holding her and just as tight. Had she told her what had happened? How afraid she was?  How many times had Seanna been in Bull’s position, sitting with Grace while she cried, helpless? Shit, if she could only rely on the two of them to keep her even then she was even more brittle than Bull had thought.

“And everyone is so angry at me for making the mages our allies. I didn’t know what to do! Queen Anora was there yelling at the Grand Enchanter and we needed the mages and Alexius was done so what was I supposed to do? Drag them back here in chains as our prisoners? We need them to work _with_ us so I said they should come with us as our equals. The Queen didn’t care. She just wanted us all gone. Cassandra, she said she didn’t like the decision, but she supports it regardless.” She took a long shuddering breath and looked at Bull. “Did I do the right thing?”

Bull wouldn’t’ve made the mages his allies. He would’ve kept them in their place. To give them that freedom, that was too dangerous. Set a dangerous precedent too. But she didn’t need to hear that. Not now.

“You made a hard decision when you needed to. That’s the most important thing. We can deal with the consequences, and there are always consequences with any choice you make, later.”

“Is that your way of telling me I made the wrong choice?”

Perceptive. “You don’t need me to give you another opinion. You have advisors for that.”

She squeezed his hand again. “I value your opinion, Bull. If I ask for it, you should tell me. I just wish people would stop thinking I’m in charge.”

Though her cabin was warm, Grace shivered and pulled her hand out from Bull’s.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t supposed to tell you any of that. Leliana told me especially not to tell you.” She laughed, watery and weak. “But I had to tell someone. Dorian was there, he remembers, but we promised each other we wouldn’t talk about it. I tried telling the cats but you know what cats are like. I can’t tell Seanna. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Bull chafed at Leliana’s order, but he got it. He’d’ve said the same in her position. For Grace’s sake, he wouldn’t report on what she said. He knew how high the stakes were now, knew just as well as Leliana and Cassandra what would happen to the world if Grace failed. No point telling the qunari any of that. They wouldn’t be able to prevent anything even if it all came true. All he could do now was keep that future from happening.

Tiger skipped back over, meowing as she went. She climbed her way up the bed, those little needle-claws digging into the blanket, then nosed her way under and flopped. A lump in the otherwise well-made bed.

“I think she’s trying to tell me something,” Grace said. She poked the lump. It gave an indignant squark. Grace turned back to Bull. “Solas will start training the mages tomorrow. When they’re ready, I’m to join them. Will you come with me? I’d like you to be there. In case…” She didn’t finish her sentence but Bull nodded.

“Sure thing, Boss. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

Grace smiled, bright but tired. Bull took his leave, trying not to rub his eye or think about what Grace had told him, but he failed at both.

*

Vivienne pursed her lips, the glass of vintage wine gone sour on her tongue. Mage allies? _Mage allies._ Had the Inquisition gone completely mad? Clearly they had. She read the missive again knowing the wording would not have changed. She would need to tell Celene. Best the news come from her. Vivienne left her wine and settled her hennin and set off to Celene’s quarters. She needed to have a plan both for herself and the Empress. Having a growing, independent military force on Orlais’ doorstep was hardly appreciated and with a band of Circle-trained mages in the mix, who knew what might happen? Best outcome was they actually managed to seal the breach. Worst would be if they failed, of course, though she was sure there would be different values of what constituted failure and with her distance from the situation, she couldn’t be sure just how far reaching failure--or success--would be.

When the guards opened the doors to Celene’s chambers, Vivienne knew what she had to do. She smiled to herself, already listing invitees, the Herald at the top of the list. A soiree! At last, something to celebrate.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem helps out

Out on Haven’s frozen lake, groups of mages and templars huddled together, shoulder to shoulder. Steam and smoke or misty hazes rose from a few of the groups. They looked cold, but they probably weren’t. Generating all that magic must get the blood pumping just like any other kind of sparing. The cold would hit them once they stopped working and all that sweat chilled.

Bull and Krem watched, comfortable in their folding chairs by their camp, the other Chargers out chopping trees and collecting firewood. Keeping busy. They were getting itchy feet, starting to cause trouble, and Bull had to exert his authority after the usually good tempered tavern keeper made a complaint to him.

Krem took a long pull from his ale then cleared his throat. “I thought about taking the boys for a walk. Stretch the legs.”

Bull watched a mage conjure a ball of fire. It popped and the mage fell flat on his ass.

“Uh huh. You’re going to leave the old dog at home?” Bull asked.

“Yeah. Seems like he’s got his hands full these days anyway. Wouldn’t want to pull him away from all that important arse sniffing he’s been doing.”

Bull leveled Krem with half a glare. “Hey. It’s not ass sniffing. It’s morale boosting. And it’s important work.”  
“Yeah yeah. Just means you’re going soft.”

“Say that again tomorrow at training and you’ll see how soft I am, Krem.”

“All right, don’t get your horns in a twist.” Another swig. “About that walk, then.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Krem tilted his head back. “Just up the road.”

“Up the road.”

“Up the road. Leliana’s been up there but…” Krem trailed off, attention half caught by a group of mages channeling a horizontal column of magic between each other.

“You want a job done probably you do it yourself, right?” Bull asked.

“Right. And I figured you’d be going up there. I know what you’re like with demons.”

“Aw, Krem. You care.”

“Just don’t go telling anyone.”

Bull watched the mages for a moment. “Run it past Cullen first, just so he knows what’s going on. And stay safe. No heroics.”

“Got it, Chief.” Krem nodded at the mages. “Think they can actually do it? Close the breach?”

Bull replied with a long heavy sigh.

“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Krem said.

*

Solas’ hut was brightly lit. Not sunlight, not candles. Orbs and wisps floating in the air. They tailed light, like mist, glowing from within. As Grace sat on an old rickety chair with her palm face up on the table and Solas alternating between poking and waving, she swore she heard whisperings. Voices, male and female, too faint to hear. Just hisses and shushes. Solas would hum in agreement but she couldn’t tell if he was talking with the lights or merely pleased with what he saw on her hand. She looked at it too. For the first time in weeks she wore no glove--leather or woollen. The scar was clear, no green swirling about. Just a long, jagged gash.

“Has it been causing you pain?” Solas asked.

“No more than usual.” The pain, so sharp and bright at first, lancing through her fingers, up her arm, bringing her to her knees, was now a dull, thudding ache most of the time, like a toothache. Near a rift the crackle of a storm and the power of the mark took over, lifting her arm and mixing with whatever pulled from the Fade to close the rift. But away from rifts her hand just ached. Whether the pain had actually diminished or she’d just gotten used to that level of agony and could now live with it, Grace didn’t know.

Solas seemed content with that and went back to muttering with the floating lights and casting magic over Grace.

“I still don’t know if I did the right thing,” she said. Perhaps she didn’t really want to hear what Solas had to say. He hadn’t been there. None of them had. 

“Do not trouble yourself with their politics. That is for the leaders to deal with. Your only concern now is learning how to channel the mages’ magic through you. We can move quickly now that we have them.”

Oh, well, that was nicer than she expected.

“The Tevinter, Dorian, he is with us now, is he not? What has he said about this amulet? No, I shall ask him myself. His magical training is different from that of the Circles in the south, and different again from Dalish and apostates. He may be able to assist my studies.”

He was talking to himself, Grace realised, so she didn’t bother replying.

Solas let go of her hand and looked at her with kind eyes. “I think you are ready. Let me speak with Fiona and we can integrate you into our practice.”

She smiled back, unsure and wary, but glad to be moving forward, closer to resolution and closer to home.

*

The breach still hung heavy in the sky, the massive rift directly below it. As long as they stayed far enough away from the rift, they’d not trigger any demons, or so Solas had told Krem.

Could this place be filled with anymore despair? The ruins still smoldered, even after all this time. The unnatural warmth had Krem tugging at his collar. The warmth even spread out to the camp they’d set up beyond the boundaries of the Temple. No one could have survived an explosion on such a scale. That Grace had made Krem rethink his belief in the Maker.

Now that they’d arrived, the company looked to Krem. All except Dalish who poked around at the remains of some poor soul.

“Right, you lot. Search the area, cut the throat of anything that moves. Also, keep an eye out for valuables. Gold, jewelry, gems and the like. There’s one hundred royals apiece for anyone who finds anything with this coat of arms on it.” He held up a piece of paper with a picture on it: a bird with its wings outstretched. Looked like a seagull but it was an albatross. Big difference, apparently.

“Isn’t that the Trevelyan crest?” Rocky asked.

“That’s right. The Herald’s mother and father died in the explosion. If there’s anything left of them, the Chief wants to know about it.” That wasn’t completely true. Wasn’t true at all, in fact. Krem was the one who’d thought of bringing the Chargers here, and the idea about the Trevelyans came to him after overhearing her talk about her family one night. Chief didn’t know about the reward either, but Krem was sure he’d be up for paying it, knowing the cause. The big idiot had a heart of gold when it counted.

The group spread out, working methodically through the remains. They were well into the afternoon when Skinner shouted ‘Here!’ Krem wandered over to see what she’d found. The ring was still attached to a charred finger, arm shielding the face from a blow. He examined the crest stamped into the metal. Yep, Trevelyan all right.

“One hundred Royals to the lady with the knife,” Krem announced. “Keep looking. The mother can’t be far away. You know what nobles are like with their jewels.” He stared at the body a moment, apologised to Bann Trevelyan, then snapped the finger off. It crumbled to dust in his hand till he was left with the ring. He turned it over. Good metal. Must be veil quartz. The details hadn’t even melted in the blast. He pocketed the ring and searched the rest of the body. Nothing obviously Trevelyan. Just a few pieces of gold and an emerald that looked like it’d fallen from its mount.

He turned to the ashes beside the body, kicking through them with his boot. A patch of silver showed through and he bent down to scrape away the ash and pick it up. A brooch, the kind that would hold a shawl in place. The eye sockets of the albatross lay empty but it was otherwise intact.

“One hundred royals to the man far from home,” Krem muttered. The brooch joined the ring in his pocket before the search continued.

*

The Chargers had been back for a whole day but Krem hadn’t had the opportunity to find Grace. According to the Chief, she was stuck with the mage allies and _talking, shit so much talking_ with her advisors. Even the Chief sounded miserable. His own fault though. He’d chosen to stick by her side. Sucker. He listened as Dalish lilt out a few orders to the mages gathered around. Coordinating their magical abilities so closing the breach was quite the effort of cooperation. They were getting good, though. Dalish had taught her charges some new tricks and they looked formidable. How it was all supposed to work, Krem didn’t have the faintest idea.

As he shifted his weight, the jewelry in his pocket jangled. They’d only found the two pieces but that was more than he’d hoped for. Skinner had probably spent her reward already. Really he should find Grace soon and return them to her. As luck would have it, he spotted Grace trudging up the hill, walking in the direction of the training grounds. Cullen and Cassandra walked beside her. They towered over her. Not because she was short and they were tall, rather, she walked with a bend in her back, head dropped. The warriors walked tall beside her, heads held high. They were speaking to her, but she didn’t look like she was listening.

Krem waited until the three got close enough before stepping into their path.

“My Lady,” he said, interrupting Cullen mid pontificating.

Grace looked up, her big blue eyes heavy with exhaustion. She forced a smile. “Krem, you’re back. I didn’t know.” She gave a pointed look to Cullen, who cleared his throat and looked away.

“Returned yesterday,” he said. “If you have a moment?”

“Of course.” Grace waited for Cullen and Cassandra to pass, both heading towards the training ground tents rather than the Chantry. “My apologies, Krem. They seem content to leave me in the dark about the comings and goings of my friends but think it imperative that I know how thick the ice is on the lake. Shall we?” She held her arm out for him to loop his own around.

Friend. Krem wouldn’t go quite that far, but he was flattered that she considered him her friend. Together they walked up the path towards Haven. He hoped to steer her in the direction of her cabin, though she was likely to lead him around the side of the Chantry. Either way, he’d be able to give her the ring and brooch he’d found.

They walked up the path, Grace asking quiet questions about his mission. He suspected she didn't actually want to know about it and was just being polite, so he kept his answers to a minimum. Even if he hadn’t sensed her discomfort, he wouldn’t’ve divulged as much to her as he had in his report. She was too sensitive for talk about charred bodies and the smell of sulfur.

The Chantry was her goal. Grace freed her arm as they rounded the corner of her alcove, set about fussing over the cats. When she stood up again, Krem turned to her.

“My Lady, Grace. We found something at the Temple. Thought you might like to have them.”

She glanced at Krem, distracted by the cats. How the advisors got anything through to her was beyond him. He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the pieces, passing them to her. “Here.”

Grace stared at the ring and brooch in her palm. Her fingers closed around them before opening again slowly. She trembled and a sob escaped. Before Krem knew what was happening, Grace had flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. She cried. She cried so hard he had to wrap his arms around her to keep her upright. He didn’t know what to do. Should he rub her back? Pat her? He just held her, wondering if she didn’t mind his armour digging into her chest, failing to ignore just how clammy and warm his neck was getting.

Finally she pulled back, wiping her face on her sleeve. She mumbled an apology, staring at the jewelry again. When she looked at him, her eyes were still full of tears.

“Thank you, Krem. Thank you so much.” She whispered the words, her smile fighting her grief. “My mother and--”

“I know.” Krem placed his hand on her arm and the rest of the words came tumbling out. “I know what it’s like to lose your parents. Mine are--” he stopped himself before he said too much. “I… understand, my lady.”

Grace pulled him into another hug. This time a lump formed in his throat and tears stung his eyes. But he wouldn’t let them escape. This was Grace’s moment, not his. Still, the truth stabbed at his guts. He knew what how it felt to lose his parents, that much was true. Except his father was still alive; only he was beyond saving. He had nothing to remember his parents. Only his memories. If only someone could’ve saved something of theirs for him. Grace now had her father’s signet ring and her mother’s brooch. He’d found them for her. Given her a piece of her family back.

She kissed him this time, on the cheek. He stiffened but it was over before anything else happened. She thanked him again. “You are truly wonderful, Krem. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“Ah, just doing my job, Boss,” he joked. “You pay the Iron Bull and the Iron Bull pays me.”

She took his hand in hers, looked like she would object, profess her undying love to him or something. Instead she she spoke softly. “When we march to the Temple, these will give me more strength than all those mages will. I can’t thank you enough.” She squeezed his hand, giving him a smile, then she let go and walked away.

Krem waited until she was out of sight before slumping down against the bricks and letting the tears finally fall.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is wildly canon divergent and also sad :(

The way the mark interacted with Grace was interesting, to say the least. Though the specifics of the individual wielder probably did not matter, the fact that anyone at all had survived such an experience was a feat worthy of congratulations. And suspicion.

Grace did not appear to have conscious control over the mark. It did what it wanted, pulling itself and Grace close to rifts, those tears beyond the veil, into the Fade itself. It acted like a key, of that there was no doubt. Whether it would lock the breach... Solas had to believe for his own sanity that it would. He also had to believe that Grace would survive the magic he planned to channel through her. It was unfortunate that she had been caught up in this.

Solas’ idea as he had explained it to the Inquisition’s leaders, was to use Grace as a conduit through which magic would flow. They had no option but to accept his suggestion. Indeed, he had not set them--or Grace--wrong since his arrival, he’d given them no reason to doubt him.

Both her and the mark had been responding well to the influx of magical intent channeled through her. The hardest part had been focussing the mages. Too many of them were jumpy and jittery or had loose control over their magic. Strong focus was required to channel the huge outpouring of magic through Grace. Magic even more powerful than that that opened the breach in the first place.

Solas worked with the former Grand Enchanter and a handful of competent mages to train up the more inexperienced. For some the training was too hard, harder than the harrowing Circle mages went through. Those mages were sent back to the safety of Haven’s high stone walls. Others thrived with the new tuition. Focusing this magical intent was not as easy as producing a fireball or wall of ice. Such magic was often reactionary, and often how magic first manifested itself in the young. The ability to _focus_ , to channel that magic, to control it, _that_ took skill.

The Tevinter talked too much, though Solas had to admit he had considerable skill. His ability to wield magic was like nothing Solas had seen from the southern mages--circle or apostate. Dorian would deny it, but he had a subtly about him, control so tight yet lavish at the same time. He could be violent, yes, but never rough. His magic lacked the harsh, wild edges of apostates while having greater finesse than those circle trained.

At first, Solas gathered the mages in groups of five, had them concentrate on keeping a stone elevated. If any of them faltered, it would fall. They all needed to focus, together, on keeping it afloat. Once two groups had mastered that, they joined forces and tried again. More groups came together as they honed their skill. Once every group had come together, they tried again on a larger object. Over the course of days, the stone became a rock, then a blade, a nug. That first nug… well, there wasn’t much left to call a nug. More nugs died during the practice, much to Solas’ dismay and Grace’s joy. She had not yet realised what the nugs represented, that she would be the one obliterated if the mages could not get this right. Finally, once the nugs remained whole, Solas tried with Grace. Only a few, select mages. Three to start with. Solas himself, Dorian and Fiona.

She floated, lifted off the ground, enveloped in light. The edges of the Fade tugged and pulled at the Veil. Voices questioned, spirits whispered. Solas grinned.

“I feel sick,” Grace said.

“Bring her down.” Solas and the mages lowered her. She wobbled and fell to her knees. “Grace, my lady.” Solas knelt beside her and held her face in his hands. Her eyes were vacant, unable to focus. She blinked, becoming aware of her surroundings soon enough.

They tried again.

Nausea was her only side effect. No effect on the mark though--they were too far from a rfit, too far from the breach. Day after day, he expanded the circle of mages involved. Then his training turned to Grace herself, teaching her how to open herself to the magic. Soon she could stand, and withstand huge magical forces. Though she was woozy afterwards, rest and elfroot tea soon set her right. Solas had to hope he had done enough. Time to seal the breach.

*

A bath beckoned and thanks to the Iron Bull, a tub full of hot water was already waiting for Grace when she finally trudged up to her cabin from the training ground. She doubted Bull filled the bath himself. Probably got the Chargers to do it and then caught Dorian so he could do the heating. Dalish didn’t “do fire,” apparently. Stormy thunder and lightening were her speciality. She flopped back on her bed, back cracking, and lay still. The ceiling spun so she closed her eyes and groaned. Maker, how much longer would they need to practice until they were ready to seal the breach? The day couldn’t come soon enough.

A knock on her door drew another groan from her. The door creaked open. “Grace? Hello?” Here was the reason all this practice was worth it. Seanna crept in and sat on the edge of the bed next to Grace. She leaned back on one hand, smiling down at Grace. “Another hard day? You poor thing. Come. Let’s get you undressed and in the bath before it gets too cold.”

Grace didn’t protest as Seanna unlaced Grace’s boots and peeled her socks off. She wiggled her toes, the cool air refreshing after being stuck in sweaty sheepskin boots all day. Seanna unlaced Grace’s trousers next but the effort required to lift her butt off the bed was too hard, so she waved her off.

“Too tired.”

“No, come on. We’re going to have a bath.” Seanna slipped off the bed and stood between Grace’s legs, took her hands and pulled her up to sitting. The sudden headrush made Grace fuzzy. She fumbled with her scarf and buttons but her fingers shook too much so Seanna took over. A pile of clothes ended up on the floor, ending with underthings. Seanna wrapped her arm around Grace’s side and led her to the bath. The calluses on her hand rubbed against Grace’s skin, contrasting with the softness of her inner arm. One foot over the lip of the bath, then the next. Grace sighed. Warmth enveloped her as she crouched, lying back until only her head remained above the water. She closed her eyes again and listened to Seanna undress. A couple of splashes and the water rising over Grace’s chin had Grace shuffling back to allow Seanna space.

Bull had arranged their first bath, changing the guard rotations on her cabin so he or Krem would be on the door to allow Seanna to sneak in and then out, later. Much later. His knowing smirk in the morning made Grace blush but she politely thanked him for his help. Maker, that first bath together had been decadent, full of stifled giggles and long, groping kisses. Greedy and gasping, freely touching each other for the first time. No need to stay covered from the cold behind the chantry, or risk prying eyes in the stables. Seanna’s kisses made Grace’s sickness melt away, but now with the increased training, she ached, too exhausted to even kiss, so most of the time, Seanna just joined her to wash away the aches.

Seanna shuffled on her knees between Grace’s legs and pulled Grace forward. Grace rested her forehead on Seanna’s shoulder and let herself go, let Seanna massage Grace’s shoulders, squeeze her arms. She hummed as she washed and the tune reminded Grace of her mother. The way she used to wash Grace as a child, both Grace and Sebastian squished into the same tub with Sebastian blowing handfuls of suds in Grace’s face and Grace splashing him back and their mother, gently pushing them apart so she could get them both clean.

Her mother. Oh. _Oh_. Though she was now far too old to have her mother wash her, the thought that that could never happen again caused a spring of tears. They flowed down Grace’s cheeks and she wrapped her arms around Seanna as she sobbed. Seanna shushed her, pausing in her washing to rock Grace back and forth. The enormity of everything lay heavy on Grace’s shoulders. The death of her parents, the death of all the people at the conclave, the death of all the soldiers fighting for the Inquisition’s cause, the rifts spitting demons throughout the land and Grace, Grace was the only one who could close them. Maker. And the breach. Would the sky ever be blue again? Maker, she had to close the breach and it hurt. She _hurt_. But with Seanna’s strong arms around her, she’d be okay. She would be able to live.

“I watched you today. It’s a bit… scary, seeing you like that, all wrapped up in green. What does it feel like?”

Grace opened her mouth to speak but the thoughts flew away before she could form them properly. How to explain what it felt like? Solas had asked her the same question and she’d been just as lost then.

Seanna poured a cup of water over Grace’s head, washing away the tears. Water ran into her ears and for a moment, she was underwater, floating, light, all sensations dulled. That. That was what the magic was like. She shook her head, flicking water everywhere, her hearing returning to catch the splutter of Seanna wiping a strand of Grace’s hair off her cheek. She leant back, blinking at Seanna.

“It feels like drowning,” she said. “But not in water. Like… like I’m trapped in fuzzy air, but it has sharp edges that try to cut me. Like… like when you’re underwater and you open your mouth and water rushes in but you can push it away with a bubble. That’s what the air feels like, except it’s coming from inside and I have to push it out.” She slumped down, spilling water over the side of the bath. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me,” Seanna said. She smiled, all warm and toothy. She leant over the bath to retrieve a bar of soap. Once she’d lathered up her hands, she rubbed Grace’s scalp, massaging with her fingertips. Grace moaned and let her eyes slip closed, let herself be lulled by Seanna’s firm hand. Seanna tilted her head back and rinsed the suds from Grace’s hair. Some of it ran into her mouth, all bitter, but Grace didn’t care.

Once she was done, Seanna climbed out and dried off, then helped Grace do the same. She helped Grace into her night dress and settled her into bed. All tucked up and on her side, Grace watched her dress.

“Stay?” Grace asked.

“You know I can’t.” Seanna gave Grace a kiss on the forehead. “Sleep well, my dear. Come see me when you can. Before boring old Cullen gets to you.”

Grace grinned, too tired to laugh, and nodded. She was asleep before Seanna had closed the door.

*

Another day of practicing. More mages this time. Grace didn’t recognise all of them, much to her annoyance. She’d just learned the names of everyone and now there were more? She stood still while the mages fanned out in circles, all spaced with a clear path to Grace so their magic could travel unimpeded. Solas walked through the lines, calling to the mages to concentrate, focus their energy and direct it toward the Herald of Andraste. The air fizzed with magic. A tingle started deep in Grace’s chest tickling into an itch that rippled through her bones, out to her skin. The ground slipped away from her, the magic lifting her up. She forced herself to let it take over. The more she let out, the less sick she would feel. Control slipped away from her as she became a conduit to the mages around her. She tipped her head back and stared at the sky. She buzzed, like she was being shaken. Her teeth ached, a metallic pulsing in her gums. Pain sizzled up her arm, magic searching for release.

The pain grew, her body on fire. It crawled up her throat and the mark sparked, green swirling around and around until she couldn’t see anything past the green mist and the hurt, _Maker it hurt_. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong. She tried to call out but her tongue filled her mouth, swollen and dry. She fought for control of her body, will her arm to bend but she couldn’t. Her head spun, dizzy and faint, and Maker, were those shouts she could hear?

A thundering roar rolled towards her and she got swept off her feet, tackled, more like, and there was the daylight. Bull held her under one arm, sideways, and he kept running. Her hand kept sparking, tugging her, pulling her between where she’d been and wherever Bull was taking her. Her shoulder burned, the socket threatening to pop. She tried to shout at Bull but it came out as a screaming cough. Wiggling her other arm free, she slapped him over and over. Whether that was what made him stop or not she didn’t know. He put her down, saying something she couldn’t understand, then she collapsed to her hands and knees, bile burning her throat, then vomit. He crouched beside her, hand on her back. She looked back and there, where she’d floated just moments ago, a rift spewing demons.

The circle of mages hurled magic at the demons, so many demons. Cassandra, Cullen, Blackwall, all fighting. Arrows flew. She traced their paths to see Sera and Varric and even Leliana firing. Behind them, a ring of villagers. Some she recognised. Recruits, bakers, healers, refugees. The whole of Haven must have been there, watching. Then Seanna, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. She met Grace’s eye, held her attention for a moment, then she turned and ran back toward the village. Grace reached out like she could pull Seanna close, tell her she’s okay, they’re okay, but she brushed against Bull instead and he flinched.

“Bull, Iron Bull. Are you okay?” She looked up at him, coughing at the sick in her mouth.

He looked down at her and there was fear in his eye but his voice was strong when he spoke. “Am _I_ okay? A rift opened out from you and you’re asking _me if I’m okay?_ ” He stood, pulling her up too. “You need to go do that thing you do with the rift.”

He half dragged, half carried her back into the fray. She was useless without her bow but she probably couldn’t fire it anyway, what with the pain and sick. To one side of the rift, a flash of a man knelt on the ground, hands behind his back, gone as Cullen and Blackwall surrounded him. Cassandra caught her eye as the last demon sizzled and popped and at the same time as she shouted “ _Now_ ”, the rift sputtered and Grace’s arm shot up. The air snapped and her arm jerked back, the mark connecting with the rift, and then… gone. Silence. Grace had time to see the horrified villagers before she collapsed again. Bull fell to her side, then Cassandra and Cullen, Solas, Dorian. Someone put a water skein to her lips and she coughed before finally swallowing. Behind her, behind the wall of companions, the crowd shouted and cheered. Some happy, some angry. Cullen backed out and yelled at them to step back, to give the Herald space. She remained shielded for a long time. Those around her murmured and she recognised the tone: arguing. About her and… someone else?

“Say the word and I kill him.”

“She must walk unaided.”

“Don’t kill him!”

“The people need to see her strong.”

“He made _fucking rift_ form right out of her and you expect me not to kill him?”

“We wait until she can walk. Fetch more water, and get some elfroot.”

“No, no more magic. We can’t afford to rush her.”

Her head lolled against Iron Bull’s chest, his arms tight around her. More water. She choked and worked her arm free so she could drink it herself. The argument died down and she sat for a long time, feeling Bull’s heart beat against her temple. When he spoke, his voice vibrated through her. He was just talking to Cassandra and Solas. They both frowned, though Cassandra’s was more of a scowl.

Snippets of the conversation filtered through. Someone, one of those Venetori, he disrupted the magic and twisted the mark so that was why the rift had formed. Grace didn’t care, too exhausted to do anything. She sat a while longer.

The sun hadn’t shifted far when Josephine knelt in front of her, worry hidden behind kindness. “Can you walk, Herald?”

Grace had no idea but she nodded anyway. Bull let go of her and she took Josephine’s outstretched hand. She took a few steps, wobbling before straightening up. Josephine looked grimly pleased with the attempt. Grace turned to look up at Bull and he put his hands on her shoulders.

“Let’s get you out of here, Boss.”

The wall of companions parted to reveal Haven in bright sunlight. Only midday. Felt like late afternoon. She walked back through the village, past people who stood and gaped. Some wept. Some waved. Some fell to the ground wailing praise at the Maker. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling naked, exposed and thanked the Maker for small miracles when she made it back to her cabin. Privacy at last. But half her companions followed. Josephine, Cassandra, Solas, Dorian, and Bull. Cullen lingered in the doorway.

Sleep, all she wanted was to lie down. She made for her bed but Solas took her gently by the arm. He said something to the others and they all filed out save for Cassandra. Bull hung back and Grace asked him to stay. Cassandra helped her change into her pyjamas while the men turned their backs. Once Grace is settled, Cassandra left.

“Solas, I feel so sick.” Grace curled into a ball, gripping her stomach. If she didn’t move, then she wouldn’t hurt. “I want to go home.”

The soft wash of magic lay like a blanket over Grace and sleep tugged at her at last.

When she woke next, the room was dark. A little wisp provided enough light for her to see that Bull was still with her, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest. She fumbled at the blankets, needing to pee, and Bull woke up, instantly alert.

“Hey Boss, what d’you need?” But before she could answer, he’d fished out the chamber pot. He turned his back while she used it, then she climbed back into bed. The events of the day caught up and she realised what had happened.

“Someone tried to kill me, didn’t they?” she asked.

Bull nodded. “Yeah. One of those Venetori bastards. Tried to turn you in--”

“Where’s Seanna?”

“Uh… I don’t know. Sleeping, I guess. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Can you get her for me, please?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Boss.”

Grace curled in on herself again. “I’m cold.”

“How about I keep you warm. I might not be as soft but I give off a lot of heat.”

Grace considered Bull’s offer. How he’d fit in her tiny bed when her and Seanna barely fitted was a challenge too hard to solve but she was too tired to say no. Bull pulled the blanket back, picked her up, shuffled in--the bed groaning and cracking--and lay back. Grace settled onto her new mattress, lumpy in some places, and wiggled to get comfortable. Bull ran his hand over her back and she fell asleep to the rise and fall of his chest.

*

Those who’d doubted that Andraste worked through Grace believed now. They told her, stopping her whenever she walked through Haven, stuttering apologies like she might otherwise smite them. Those who didn’t stop her, just stared. They’d always done that though. She’d gotten used to that. But now? Now she was a hero and they had to tell her. They had seen her close a rift with their every own eyes--a rift that had formed right out of her, even. She’d even stopped the man who had been sent to kill her. He’d come from Tevinter, they said, sent by the Black Divine and it was the will of Andraste and the Maker living in Grace that allowed her to stop their nefarious plans. That it was an arrow of Sera’s and a shield bash from Blackwall that had disrupted the Venetori’s magic didn’t seem to matter. No doubt Josephine and Leliana had a hand in the stories.

This morning was particularly painful. For every three strides she took, she had to stop so someone could thank her for all she was doing. When the Chantry doors were in sight, she apologised and broke into a run, only to find Josephine in raptures, near running up to Grace to pump her hand and introduce her to a group of well-dressed travellers.

“Sers Mayweather and Plinket, may I introduce to you the Herald of Andraste.” She bowed low, flicking her arm out. The couple and their retainers bowed too. Grace, not really knowing how to respond, bowed as well.

“We arrived just as the commotion started!” Ser Plinket said. “Frightfully good timing, I must say.”

“They say the spirit of Andraste works through you,” Ser Mayweather said.

Grace just smiled and nodded and let Josephine do the talking. There had been others like this, rich people clammering to be Inquisition patrons. Josephine had explained that word of Grace’s good deed from such wealthy and reliable witnesses would flow through the land and do the Inquisition a world of good.

Cullen was no better, walking into the war room with a bounce in his step that Grace had not seen before. “Morale has never been so high. Having seen what they’re fighting for up close has been the best boost we could have asked for.”

Better than the mages that Grace had gained? Better than all the rifts she had closed already? Better than the templars and apostates, people’s sons and daughters that she’d killed in the name of the Inquisition?

All Grace cared for was Seanna but whenever she went to find her, she got dogged by children and villagers and petitioners. Fed up, she found Bull.

“You’re my bodyguard. Can you please guard me?” she pleaded, explaining that she just wanted to see Seanna.

He grinned and guided her into his tent. It didn’t smell like any of the tents Grace had slept in on her journeys. No stale sweat or stinky boots. A musky, spicy scent pervaded. Deep and rich. His bed looked very comfortable, piled high with thick furs. Maybe she could just stay here.

“Here, put this on.”

Grace turned to see what Bull held out. Clothes, armour, but not Inquisition armour. Dark green and too big, she looked like she wore a tent. Bull draped a chain vest over her shoulders. Maker, it felt like it weighed more than a druffalo. He helped with the straps, then pulled the hood up, tugging it forward so far that Grace could barely see more than her nose. Finally, he held out a pair of boots so big that Grace could fit her own booted feet in. Maker, how would she walk in these?

“Hmm. Not bad. You should be able to head up to your spot behind the chantry without being recognised. I’ll go find Seanna.”

Grace frowned. “I’d rather she come to my cabin. Could you guard the door?”

Bull shook his head. “Too tricky these days. Too many people wanting to see you. They’ll start talking if she goes in there. I’ll post a couple of my boys outside the chantry though. That should see you right.”

She supposed he was right. Maker, her life had turned upside down already and now it had tumbled over again. She thanked Bull then wobbled out the tent and up to the chantry. No one tried to stop her.

A few cats milled around, lying on the oilskin cloak, cleaning themselves and each other. Their bowls were full--Varric’s doing, no doubt. She would have to thank him. She fussed about, cleaning a few bows with handfuls of snow, digging out supplies of nug meat. As she stroked one of the cats, she caught a scuff from behind her. She turned, beaming at Seanna.

Seanna stood back, her shoulders hunched, and wouldn’t meet Grace’s eye. Grace kept smiling even as the first cracks fractured her heart. “Seanna! I’ve missed you! Did Bull come and find you? I asked him to. I’m sorry I look like this. Everyone has been hounding me.” She stepped forward, toward Seanna, her true friend. Seanna took a step back. Grace stopped. A chasm opened between them. “Seanna?”

“I’m sorry.” It came out as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Grace said. She frowned, brows furrowed. Fire burned in her stomach.

“I didn’t… I wasn’t afraid, not even when I watched you all practicing… but then...  I saw, really saw and…” Seanna shrugged. She glanced at Grace before staring at the ground, looking hopeless. “I just don’t think…” She looked up and Grace saw the effort the action took. “You really are the Herald of Andraste, aren’t you?”

Grace shook her head, denying that this could be happening. “I’m still me.”

Seanna’s turn to shake her head. “No, you’re not. You’re something more. I didn’t know until I saw it myself. I knew you were special, knew it the day you walked into our farm, but I didn’t know… Someone tried to kill you! He made a rift come out of you! That’s not supposed to happen!  I can’t, not when that can happen. Please, please don’t hate me.” Seanna grimaced. She looked like she wanted to leave but couldn’t, stuck fast against her own wishes.

“I don’t hate you. I couldn’t.” Grace’s voice wobbled.

“Maybe with time…” But whatever Seanna started suggesting died in the space between them. “I’m sorry.” She turned this time, and started to leave. No. She couldn’t leave, not like this.

“Wait!” Grace reached out. Seanna turned back. “Please.” Grace took a step forward, slowly, testing the ground with each step. Seanna flinched but didn’t back away. Grace closed the space between them and held her arms out. “Please don’t leave yet. We’re safe here, for a while. Please, I love you.”

Seanna stepped into Grace’s arms, tentative, wary, like a rift might explode out of her. When Grace smiled a teary smile, Seanna reached out, cupping Grace’s cheeks. She kissed her, once, and fell into Grace’s embrace, sobbing. Grace burst into tears as well. They welled up from her chest, weeping from the open wound of her heart. Seanna tugged at Grace, pulling her down, and the pair tumbled to the ground, still holding each other. They shifted, all elbows and knees, until they’d reached some semblance of comfort on the cold, snowy ground.

“I owe you an explanation,” Seanna whispered. “You deserve that much.” She explained in halting sniffs the fear that had gripped her on seeing the sickly green rift forming around Grace, the perversion of all that was normal. The pain, Maker the pain. “You screamed so loudly, I thought you were dying.” So she ran. The next day, the Iron Bull had found her, told her that Grace wanted to see her. He’d even offered to join her when she said she couldn’t. “He asked me why and I said I was scared.” Fresh tears fell. Grace resisted the urge to wipe them away. “He said he’d been scared too, but he’d stuck by you anyway. All well and good for him to say. He’s a warrior! And it’s his job to protect you, to run towards trouble instead of away from it. I’m not… That’s not… I’m a farmer’s daughter! A stable hand!” She broke down again. The tighter Grace’s embrace, the deeper her heart cracked but she would hold on, forever, if it meant keeping Seanna here. Seanna sniffed. “When he found me this time, I knew I couldn’t avoid you any longer. So here I am. Breaking your heart as well as my own.”

Grace squeezed Seanna, trying to force Seanna’s body against hers, but the chain vest dug into her, creating a barrier between them. She nuzzled Seanna’s neck instead, following when Seanna leant away. _Please don’t leave me. I need you. I need this_.

Seanna pried herself free of Grace’s grasp. “I need to go.” She stood, dusting the snow from her clothes.

Grace looked up at Seanna, thinking of anything to say to get her to stay. “Will you stay here, or go back to your farm?” What would be worse: never seeing Seanna again, or having to see her every day?

“Dennett needs me here, as do the horses. But if you don’t want me to stay, then I will go.”

“I couldn’t make you leave,” Grace whispered. She didn’t know how she would walk past the stables and not think about the time they spent together in the loft and she didn’t know how she would take Faith’s reins from Seanna without crying every time, but she would learn.

Seanna nodded and said goodbye. Then she left.

Grace’s head fell between her knees, heaving sobs wracking her body. She cried for Seanna’s fear, for her loss of innocence. She cried for herself and for the one shred of normalcy Seanna had allowed her to have. She cried because she feared what she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D: D: I'm sorry Grace. Unfortunately, the rest of the story doesn't have much happiness in store for her either :(
> 
> Here's a link to Grace's cat and soft nudes blog for fluffy cheering up. https://gracietrevelyan.tumblr.com/


	21. Chapter 21

Bull sat in the dungeon on a stool. He scraped its metal feet along the floor every now and then, just to keep the occupants alert. The one on the left flinched occasionally, but not in reaction to Bull. He muttered to himself. Eyes hollow, cheeks gaunt. Food stained his shirt. He stank, too, more than just food stuck to him. Bull should kill Alexius, or kidnap him and head north, but adherence to the qun outside of Par Vollen’s borders was achieved through a delicate balance of bending the qun by not pissing off the people who hired him. He turned his attention to the other one. He was more alert with a cocky glint to his eyes. Bull could gouge them out. No worry of magical retaliation: he was pumped full of magebane. Bull could turn him inside out with his skinning knife. Or better, do half the job and leave him in agony. A nice retribution for trying to turn the Boss inside out with a rift.

No. Such revenge was indulgent and petty. He should get information for his superiors.

The guy taunted Bull, spat at him, cursed in Tevene. Whether or not he thought Bull couldn’t understand him, Bull wasn’t sure, but the insults weren’t all that creative so he couldn’t be bothered getting upset. He just watched instead, steady gaze, solid, unmoving. He could ask why he wanted to kill the Boss but Bull already knew the answer. He could ask how he disturbed the mages’ spell, but Dorian already had an idea. He could ask who sent him. This Elder One, yeah yeah, he already knew that, too. Instead, Bull just sat and watched and thought about why his people had been at war with their people for longer than living memory. An ocean separated their countries. Wider than the Waking Sea, much wider. To launch an attack you really had to want to do it. There had to be more to it than just wanting to convert Thedas to the qun. Bull didn’t allow himself to question the qun all that often. Wasn’t his job to. But sometimes he’d read the reports doing the rounds and question the reasoning of it all. The sanity.

Hating this guy would be easy. Bull didn’t know him. He’d tried to kill the Boss and that was reason enough. Easy to hate nameless people, or entire groups of people. Whole countries. But individuals, they were harder. Maybe that’s what made Seheron so difficult. He might not have known the names of all the kids in the local school, but he’d recognised them, played with them, learned who their teachers were and what sides their parents were on. He’d made them personal. So, when they got poisoned, their deaths became personal. Bull couldn’t afford to think like that now but he knew that was too late. He was already too close to his entire company. If something happened to the Chargers, then it would be personal.

Bull wiped a fleck of spit off his cheek. He wasn’t going to get anything out of this guy that the big horns would need to know. He pushed the stool back, the feet screeching along the stones loud enough to set his own teeth on edge. Leave him to rot. Leave him for Red. There were other people he could spend his time on. The Boss for one. She’d probably be sitting right above him, through a few layers of stone, against the chantry wall, feeding her cats. Not making out with Seanna though. They’d gone bust. Pity. They’d been cute.

When he got up there, he saw the cats, but no Grace.

*

”Krem! Get over here. I have a job for you.”

Krem sighed and eased himself to standing. His body hurt from training all afternoon and he really just wanted to drink his ale and listen to the tavern gossip. No such thing as off-duty for the Chargers’ second in command. He wandered over and slumped down next to Bull.

“You called, Chief?”

“Yeah. Listen. Have you seen the Boss today?”

Krem shook his head.

“Do me a favour and go find her, will you?”

Krem eyed Iron Bull. Something was up. “Why can’t you go and find her?”

Bull pushed his chair back and fiddled with his belt. Oh Maker, please, no. Bull dug around under his trousers and pulled a cat out by the scruff of its neck. “I’m babysitting.”

“You can’t keep a cat in your breeches--I thought you gave it to her already. Ah, forget it.” Krem’s lips formed a thin line and he stood, arms folded. Why Bull bothered was beyond him.

“Tell her to meet me behind the Chantry,” Bull said with a sly grin.

Ah. So that’s it.

“You wouldn’t normally fuss so much to seduce a pretty face, Chief.”

Bull leveled Krem with a keen stare, smirk gone. “I’m not seducing her, Krem,” he said, enunciating each word in a way that told Krem he was pushing his luck.

Krem waved his hand at Bull and left the tavern. Fine. He’d go find the damn Boss so Iron Bull could _not_ get laid. Bloody qunari.

*

If he’d known finding the Boss would take this long, Krem would’ve put on proper boots. His feet had gone numb. Through the trees, the Inquisition flags flew from the towers at Haven. She was out this way, in the hills, or so said the people he’d spoken to down at the lake.

He paused, listening. The trees’ frosted branches crackled in the breeze, a few birds chirped sundown songs. But nothing else. Wait, what was that? Sounded like a cry. He edged further up the path, following the sound. Periodic thwacks mixed with the cry--definitely a sob, and as he rounded the corner, there sat the Boss in blood-stained snow.

“My Lady!” he called and rushed over, unsheathing his dagger.

Grace looked up at him, startled, face blotchy and tear-stained. She turned away just as fast, rubbing her face on her sleeve. Krem knelt beside her, unsure if he should put his hand on her shoulder or not. All around her lay dead nugs. That’s what the blood was from. Thank the Maker all that wasn’t coming from her.

“My Lady?” Krem didn’t know what else to say.

She sniffed, wiped her hands on her trousers. “I hate nugs.” The words came out with half a laugh, half a sob. “They’re so… hairless! They feel horrible and they make this obscene snuffly sound. I can’t stand it.”

Kinda made sense. The reason for not liking nugs part. Didn’t explain why she was cutting them up and crying about it.

After a deep breath, she wiped her face again and turned to Krem with a thin smile. “I’m sorry, Krem. Did you need me for something?”

Okay, so she’d put on her noble mask and was going to ignore where she was and what she was doing.

“The Iron Bull asked me to find you. He has something for you.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise, m’lady.” Maybe that would cheer her up.

“Very well.” Grace started piling nug meat into a bag, the bones into another. “I need to bury these. Would you mind?”

Krem looked to what she pointed at and realised she’d stuffed all the guts into the skins. Smart. He picked up the spade and dug a pit in the snow, not getting much further once he hit the frozen earth. Not really ideal, or necessary, but if it pleased the lady… She dumped the skins into the hole and he covered them back up before the stink of guts could waft up. By the time he was done, Grace was ready: bow and near-empty quiver on her back, dagger sheathed, two bags on either shoulder. He offered to take a bag but she declined, so he carried the spade instead.

They walked in silence back down the path, following Krem’s footprints. He looked around  wondered what route she’d taken for he hadn’t seen any human prints in the snow. Her occasional sniff had him clenching his teeth but not because it annoyed him. He was concerned.

“I don’t mean to pry, my lady, but is everything alright? You’ve been quiet ever since your return from Redcliffe, and then the, well, you know....” He tried that sideways glance that Bull did, looking while not looking like he was looking. Her cheeks were still red but she wasn’t crying anymore.

“Please, call me Grace.”

That was that. She didn’t say anything else as they walked back through Haven. She stopped at her cabin and took the spade off Krem. He wasn’t sure if she was going to change first, or if he should stay and chaperone her, or…

“Thank you for your company, Krem. You are a true gentleman.” She returned Krem’s tight smile one of her own and Krem took that as his sign to leave.

“Bull said he’d wait for you outside the chantry,” he said.

Grace looked down at the bags still on her shoulders. “The chantry. Right.”

“My lady. Uh, Grace.” Krem bowed his head then turned to leave.

Perhaps he should go warn Bull, or something, he thought as he wandered through the camp and back to the tavern. Nah. He’s a big boy. Better at dealing with people than Krem, anyway. Krem pushed the door open and Stitches threw his arm over Krem’s shoulder and thrust a tankard into his hand, giving him a drunken welcome. The fire beckoned, the promise of thawed toes and good company. He’d interrogate Bull later.

*

Shit, the night was closing in fast. Bull didn’t shiver though. Qunari didn’t show weakness. He leant against the corner of the chantry where Grace kept her cats. His nose started to run and every time he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes prickled. Fucking mountains. Where was Krem, anyway? Couldn’t take that much time to find one person.

Soon enough he spotted Grace walking up the path. Her gait was slow. She carried two bags that weighed her down. Bull straightened, smiled as she approached.

“You sure took your time,” he called.

Grace bowed her head. “Please accept my apologies, Bull. You wanted to see me?” She had that forced smile on, the one that looked almost genuine except for the dullness in her eyes. He led her around the side of the Chantry and sat down like he owned the place.

“Hey Grace, you doing okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. All this working with the mages, you know.” She dropped her bags and sat.

He paused before asking, “You and Seanna…?”

She turned her face away and down. She whispered something but Bull couldn’t catch it.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You wanna hit something? Go shoot some nugs? Drink yourself blind? I’ll hold your hair back when you start throwing up.”

This time her head shake was barely perceptible.

“You want me to go?”

He expected a nod or another shake but this time she turned to him, cheeks blotchy and eyes wet, face etched with anger. “Have you ever felt like a monster because of who you are?” Her fury took him by, her question hitting Bull straight in the gut. She followed up with another. “Have you ever lost the love and trust of someone you love and trust because of what you did?”

Fuck, a real one-two. She couldn’t know how accurately she’d hit him, either. Visions of Seheron flashed through his mind, Vasaad’s body on the ground, and the blood red rage that sight had triggered. Worse was the way the rest of his friends looked at him when he turned himself in. Pity, terror, shame. _Look what happened to Hissrad! If asala-taar, soul sickness, could happen to him, then it could happen to us._ He hadn’t just failed his friends. He’d failed the qun.

“Grace--” he started but she cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter, Bull. We will go and seal the breach soon and I hope Andraste takes me, because I have nothing left to give.” She got up and stormed past, pulling her hood up before she left the quiet of her nook.

Bull sat there, stunned. Cold fear leaked into the shock. Demons flashed by. The future Grace had described. He couldn’t even say he’d do his damndest to make sure she didn’t fail because he couldn’t. He was no mage and he understood nothing of what Solas was doing. He couldn’t help. He couldn’t make Seanna come back. He couldn't make Grace’s friends reply to her letters and he couldn’t bring Sebastian here. He was useless, for the first time in a long time, he was useless. That was what frightened him.

*

Cullen stood with Leliana to his left, Josephine to his right. Cassandra and Grace stood to the side while the rest of the Inner Circle crowded around. Haven was marked on the map with a gold token, The Temple of Sacred Ashes just up the mountainside marked with an iron piece.

“Solas, how many mages will go?” he asked.

“One hundred and fifty. I could take more, but these are the strongest and most able mages. I do not want to risk the weak.”

Cullen nodded. He knew this already. This meeting was mostly formality, centralising and confirming knowledge so everyone knew what the others would be doing.

“Cassandra, you will lead the attending troops. I shall stay here and hold the fort with Leliana and Josephine. The rest of you should stay behind as well. We don’t know exactly what will happen at the Temple, so the less potential for collateral damage, the better.” That earned a mix of dissenting groans and cheery agreements.

“All right by me. I only deal with nob heads, not demons,” Sera said.

“You can’t keep me away, Curly. I’m going to need to know exactly what happened for when I tell this story,” Varric said.

Iron Bull folded his arms. “I go where the Boss goes.”

“I’m going too,” Blackwall said.

Cullen sighed, hands pressed against the desk. He scowled at them all and they scowled back. Wasn’t he supposed to be a Commander? These people just didn’t know how to take orders.

“Fine. Just don’t blame me if you get yourselves killed.” Beside him, Grace whimpered. “Not, uh, that I expect anyone to die,” he added. She didn’t look convinced. Maker, this had better work.

He ran through the rest of the plan, detailing the demon situation Aclassi had put in his report. The Inner Circle would ride on the finest horses in Ferelden while the mages and accompanying soldiers would walk.

They’d march in the morning. “So get some rest, everyone. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.” Cullen dismissed the group. They all filed out with a minimum of fuss until just him, Josephine, and Grace were left.

“Josephine,” Grace said, her voice quiet. “You will look after the cats, won’t you?”

Those bloody cats.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to close the breach.

Krem and Bull sat near the embers of last night’s fire. Krem worked quietly on Bull’s vitaar, both of them blocking out the comings and going of the others rushing around them. Krem concentrated while Bull muttered measured qunlat under his breath. If Krem ever needed a reminder of who his boss really was, that was it. But all the same, Krem knew his place, and knew Bull knew it too. And wasn’t that some qunari reasoning. Must’ve been around the bastard too long. Not that he’d leave.

Couldn’t tell if they’d see any action, but it paid to be prepared, especially when the Chief had a habit of charging headlong into battle wearing not much more than pyjamas, or so it seemed to outsiders. The vitaar stung Krem’s nostrils but as long as he didn’t touch it, he wouldn’t suffer much.

Bull cut off his chant and looked up. “Here comes trouble.”

Krem checked over his shoulder, saw Grace picking her way through the debris of the camp. Good trouble then. A nice distraction. A chance to have a laugh and make some cheeks pink. She wore that fancy armour from her Redcliffe trips, with the Trevelyan brooch fastening her scarf to her jerkin. Her boots were buffed until the leather was supple. She looked good, all decked out in red and blue. Wouldn’t miss her in a crowd, that’s for sure. On further thought, the colour choice probably wasn’t hers.

“Morning, Boss,” Bull called.

Grace acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile. She looked nervous. Nervous or scared, that was Grace. On rare occasions, happy.

“I see the Seeker unlocked your ball and chain,” Bull said. Krem smirked as he worked. Always tactful, that one.

“Please, Bull. She’s not like that,” Grace replied.

Bull shifted under Krem, like he was about to throw a comeback, but he stopped and settled.

“What are you doing?” Grace asked.

“He’s applying my vitaar,” Bull said.

Grace looked uncertain and when Bull made no move to elaborate, Krem took over. “It’s a kind of paint. It hardens the skin and is toxic to anyone who’s not qunari. Hence the gloves,” he wiggled his fingers at Grace, showing off his well worn leather gloves.

“Oh, so it’s like armour?” Grace asked. Both Krem and Bull nodded. “Does it also keep you warm?” she added with a cheeky grin.

Bull laughed, loud, and Krem had to stop painting or risk jabbing Bull in his good eye with the brush. Once he’d settled down, Bull explained the process while Krem got back to work. Vitaar came in different colours, though red and black were the most common. Different patterns meant different things, displayed rank and title. Iron Bull, since he was operating under the cover of being Tal-Vashoth, didn’t mark himself as Hissrad. Though, Krem noted, Bull didn’t offer the translation of that particular title.

“So what do your symbols mean?” Grace asked. She sat down and crossed her legs. Krem hadn’t seen her this chatty in days. He liked her like this.

“They’re just patterns and shapes I like.” Bull shrugged.

Krem shifted to Bull’s other side. Grace watched as he stuck the sticky fabric stencil to Bull’s skin, concentrating as he got the angles of the diamonds just right. Krem or Stitches tended to apply the vitaar and as long as Bull didn’t go wading too far into a sea of blood, it would stay hard for a good week. The stuff was amazing. Krem had seen magic bounce right off Bull’s back, arrows hit and fall, even sword swings scythe along inflicting no more than a scratch. It didn’t make him invincible--Bull still had to watch himself--but then again, no armour was that good.

As he worked, Krem glanced up at Grace every now and then. She seemed content to watch, sitting with her chin resting on her drawn up knees. Her hand pulsed green on a regular beat. Perhaps being this close to the biggest rift gave her some kind of connection to it. She didn’t seem bothered. Probably used to it by now.

“Krem,” she spoke up. “Do you remember where you found the ring and brooch? Would you be able to show me, perhaps if it isn't too far.”

Krem studied Bull’s arm as he thought over his response. He knew exactly where they were. But he also knew that her parents had been reduced to a pile of ashes, no different from any of the other piles of ashes scattered around the Temple ruins. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry, my lady.”

She thumbed her brooch, crestfallen.

A horn wailed across the village, bringing Grace out of her daze. “That’s Cassandra calling me.” She got up and dusted herself off, wished Bull and Krem good luck.

“Grace,” Bull said. He got up, uncurling, and loomed over both Grace and Krem. “I’d offer a hug but I don’t want to burn your skin off.” He held out his hand instead.

Krem watched Grace’s expression change. Weary resignation gave way to soft melancholy. Her eyes took on that watery blue of oncoming tears but she blinked them away and placed her hand in his. He bent down and whispered something in her ear. She smiled, almost laughed, and nodded before pulling back.

Bull sat back down, looked up at Grace. “Hey, when this is all over, we’re going to celebrate, Chargers style.” He grinned and nudged Krem.

Grace didn’t seem the type to enjoy a Chargers style celebration. But maybe Krem was wrong. Maybe she just needed the right people around her to let her hair down. She gave a tight smile before turning and wandering back to her own camp to ready for battle.

“You did the right thing,” Bull said once she was out of earshot.

“She didn’t need to know,” Krem muttered.

“She likes you.” Bull added after a pause.

Krem scoffed. “I don’t think she’s interested in anyone right now.”

Bull shrugged. “Give her time.”

Krem finished up, putting the tools away while Bull got up and stretched, gave a few practice swings. Time to go… guard some mages.

*

Grace waited at the gates on her horse beside Solas and Cassandra. She looked to Solas but he was absorbed in his own thought, attention caught by the breach hanging high above them. Cassandra fidgeted with her sword, getting it sitting right against her and her horse. She looked so much more regal than Grace did. Her own red jerkin made her feel like a ripe apple about to fall. She didn’t know what they were waiting for. Waiting to leave, but why their departure was delayed, she didn’t know. Coordinating this many people… good thing she didn’t have to do any of that. The meetings were stressful enough.

She thumbed her brooch absentmindedly. Harritt had helped her set new gems into the eyes of the albatross and she’d polished it up to be as good as new. Her father’s ring hung on a chain around her neck, tucked under her armour. Once the breach had been sealed, she’d be able to go home, leave this whole mess behind her. Perhaps Sebastian would come to Haven with an escort. Or Cullen might send her with an Inquisition escort. Either way, she’d be home within the month and she’d be able to pick up her life again. Her new cats would go with her, of course. They were all she wanted to bring with her. She hoped they’d get on well with her ones at home.

At last the trumpet sounded, and the group began to march.

*

Not much had changed since Grace had last been here, let out from her prison. The Temple still lay in ruins. The air still smelt like death and sulphur, ashes. Her memories remained vague, just out of her grasp. Voices echoed in her mind, mingling with the chatter from the mages around her. She looked for Iron Bull and saw him not too far behind. He smiled and she waved, butterflies in her stomach. Cassandra stood at her side. She was a solid presence, just as much as Iron Bull. With Cassandra at her front and Iron Bull at her back, Grace felt safe and secure.

But despite all these mages around her, she knew she was the only one who could close the breach. She paid attention to Solas now as he directed the mages to their places, just as they’d practiced. Only this time was on a much larger scale. Circles and circles of mages, with her and Solas in the centre, right below the breach itself. She would draw her power from them, channel their magic through her body and the force of the blast coming from the mark on her hand would be enough to close the breach. Or so Solas’ reasoning went.

Solas called out to the mages, arms wide, rallied the first wave of magic. This was really happening.  Her hand burned, stabbing as magic throbbed through. Her arm shot up on its own volition, stretching, pulling up and up, her shoulder popped but her cry of pain was drowned out by the snapping and booming of magic. She looked up at the sky but couldn’t see anything other than green. Just green.

A low hum buzzed in her ears, her chest, getting louder, gaining rhythm. Under the deafening thunder of the magic she felt the mages chanting, all in unison. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone. Green-grey mist swirled around her, engulfing her, leaving Grace alone in the belly of a giant as it thrashed against its bindings.

One blast shot through her, then a second, a third, blinding pain sending her reeling, bile rising up her throat. The ground was not forgiving, jarring as she landed on her back. She clutched her hand, fist wrapped tight as she fought to stave off the burning leeching up her arm. Above, she could only see sky, taste blood and sick on her tongue, sharp sulphur in her nostrils. She felt like she was falling, rolling down a hill, belly over head, over and over but she couldn’t’ve been moving. Someone stood above her, peering down. Their lips moved but no sound came out.

“Mother? Mama?” she looked around, dazed and fuzzy, her fingers prised away from her scarred hand. The blood in her throat was washed away with something else, bitter and tangy. Elfroot. Lots of elfroot. Too much elfroot. Her eyes fell closed and she didn’t care.

*

Cullen stood around the side of the Chantry with Josephine, holding a bag out at arm’s length. His nose wrinkled. Cats circled around his feet, rubbing against his boots.

“Honestly, Cullen. It’s just meat. You’ve butchered animals before,” Josephine chided. She dug into the bag and distributed the meat between the bowls.

The cats rushed passed him, chugging the food down like they hadn’t been fed in days. That couldn’t be further from the truth; they’d been fed at first light that morning. Greedy buggers. They got bigger rations than his troops.

The sky above boomed, the peace of Haven shattered. The pair rushed around the corner and were blasted with a wall of freezing air, then hot, so hot. They shielded their faces then stared up at the sky. A thick green column connected to the breach, whirling and crackling with lightning. Then… nothing. The sky remained cloudy, but no longer tinged green. Just… grey. Normal, stormy grey.

Could it be? Could it really be? Cullen laughed, grabbing Josephine by the waist and swinging her up into a hug before setting her down, flustered and embarrassed for his sudden outburst. Josephine didn’t care though.

“She did it! She sealed the breach!” she laughed, grabbing Cullen’s hands and dancing around him.

All around, people stopped what they were doing to stare up at the sky before the dam of relief burst and flooded through Haven. A band started up, laughter filled the air and the people of Haven danced.

*

Something wasn’t right. The breach was sealed, yes. And the fade felt far away once again. Separated. But something still wasn’t right. The mark, perhaps, was causing magical disturbances. Solas examined Grace’s hand, not sure what to expect. He’d hoped the mark would be gone. But it wasn’t. It was still warm, sticky and sparky from having that much magic travel through it. Grace rested against a rock, asleep, spots of concentrated elfroot potion on her lips and chin. Solas wiped her mouth and hummed a lullaby. She would be okay. He tried to concentrate, to wrap her in magic, but all around, the mages and templars, celebrated, cheering so loudly that he could hardly hear or think.

When she woke, blinking, dazed, Solas was giddy with relief. Her face was white and clammy and she shook, whether from fright or cold.

“Gracie! You did it! You bloody well did it!” Dorian clapped her on the back, seemingly heedless of her current state.

The Iron Bull and Varric stood close but at least they didn’t touch her.

“I think I might be sick,” she said.

And she was sick. Iron Bull, Dorian, Cassandra, Varric and Solas all gathered around, forming a wall between their saviour and those who might see her.

A guard took Cassandra away to organise the mages and soldiers for their return to the village. She would want Grace to head up the column, return to Haven victorious. She would have to wait. At least she understood.

Bull held out his water skin, letting Grace take long drafts. Solas wiped her brow.

“You did well, Grace,” he said. “Take all the time you need. You’ve earned a rest.”

She just nodded, her head between her knees as she threw up again. This wasn’t the end though, Solas knew. Far from it. He just hoped Grace would be up to seeing it through.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party doesn't last long :(

Relief. Utter disbelief, certainly, but relief that she’d done it. The cheering and roaring of the accompanying soldiers and mages and templars died away as Grace rode onto the Petitioner’s Bridge with Cassandra and Solas at her side. Behind her, Iron Bull and a couple of the Chargers, Varric, Dorian, all with expressions ranging from bewilderment to yes, relief as well. Varric in particular looked like he was trying to commit everything to memory.

Cassandra brought the group to a halt. While she addressed a knot of soldiers, Grace looked out over the valley.

From the bridge, Haven sparkled in the distance. Candles, torches and bonfires. So warm and inviting. A bustling village with bakers and apothecaries, dogs, horses, villagers milling and rushing. She’d done this for them, healed the sky for people like those down there. People who’d been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like her, really. She looked to the horizon, moon casting the mountains and valleys in bright white light. Something flickered on the horizon, a flash of yellow or red. Hunters perhaps, making camp. All of Thedas must be looking up at the sky right now and seeing it how it should be. She could go home now. That, that was what brought the tears to her eyes. Home. Home with Bassy and Wiggles and Hunter, all her friends. She could put all this behind her and just go home.

Cassandra brought her horse up beside Grace, taking in the view as well.  “There will be a party. Everyone will be calling for you,” she said.

Grace smiled. “I think we’ve earned it.” And a rest.

*

The further down the path, the thicker the people. Pressing in, arms out in exultation. Some fell to their knees in the snow. “Herald of Andraste”, “Bride of the Maker” came in calls of prayer and pleading. Grasping hands, “just a touch, please, Herald.” Cassandra and Bull squeezed Grace between them, keeping the adoring masses at bay. Soldiers on foot lead the way, clearing a path for the horses to clomp. The eyes of the world on her. Their saviour. What couldn’t she do? In the village itself, more people, throwing flowers, bits of cloth, favours. They stood in doorways and on roofs, hung out of windows and clung to trees. Those unfortunates under the trees suffered a hail of snow as the climbers waved and shook the branches. The group rode all the way to the chantry and for a moment Grace thought they’d ride right in, but Dennett and the stable boys were on hand, even Seanna. Grace avoided her, glad when Cullen himself took Grace’s horse’s reins as she dismounted. He looked proud, with a real smile on his face--the first she’d seen from him. He was handsome without the scowl. Josephine stood by, too, bouncing on her toes. Leliana, smooth as always, ushered the group inside.

Heavy oak doors closed but the cheers could still be heard. Attendants scurried by, eyes wide as the stared at Grace then snapping their heads down.

Josephine pulled Grace into a hug, so tight and embracing that it pushed all the wind out of her lungs. “I’m so very proud of you, Grace.” She had tears in her eyes.

Leliana bowed her head, hands clasped behind her back. “I knew you could achieve the impossible. Together we shall achieve even more.”

“I’ll keep this brief, my lady,” Cullen said. He looked ten years younger, eyes bright, smile wide, all toothy even. He gripped her hand in both of his, pumping. “You did it. Thank the Maker, you did it.”  
  
Cassandra added her congratulations, again. Formally this time. Then Josephine took over, varely able to contain her excitement as she bounced and clapped her hands.

“There is party, as you no doubt saw. It started hours ago! Everyone saw the sky and started cheering. This is all your doing.” She started for the door, pushing Grace with her. “Go! Enjoy yourself!”

Back outside, Grace watched the festivities. Cassandra stood by her, the others already disbursed.

“Word of your heroism has spread, my lady,” Cassandra said.

Grace took in the view, fires crackling, spits turning, instruments playing, people dancing. None of this felt real. This success. These last few months had been nothing but frustration and fear, thrust into the unknown. But now, with the chaos over, Grace paused to just enjoy her success. She may not achieve anything on this level again, after all.

“We all achieved this,” Grace replied. She wouldn’t’ve been able to seal the breach on her own. Wouldn’t’ve survived the trek to Haven, the first rift, the mages and templars and bears, or Alexius and the Venetori assassin. She owed her success to the people around her. Her heart ached for Seanna still, but she had helped Grace in her own way, too, and for that, Grace was grateful.

“Indeed. We have achieved a victory of alliance. With the breach sealed, our alliances will need more focus. Just think of what we can accomplish.”

The Inquisition could certainly accomplish whatever its leaders set their minds to. Grace would do her part back in Ostwick. She owed the Inquisition that much. Sebastian would throw her a party, rich and lavish, a true Marcher affair. There would be time to mourn her parents, but together they would celebrate first.

Sera ran up and grabbed Grace by the arm, laughing and cheering as she dragged Grace to a bonfire piled high with branches. They danced and drank, sang newly made up victory songs. Dorian took her for a spin, the formality of his dance not at all incongruous with the music or setting. Then Bull. She clung to his arms, relishing his heat and laughter, let herself be guided by him. He finally let her go with a wink that made her blush and she made a promise to herself that she would ask the Chargers to escort her home.

“My lady,” Blackwall bowed and held out his hand. Grace laughed at his regal twirl and took his hand and again she was whisked around the bonfire. Then Josephine and Krem, back to Dorian, and then even Scout Harding. During one of her dances, she thought she spotted Seanna, but when she’d whirled around, the short hair and dark eyes were gone.

In the midst of all the frivolity, bells tolled, adding to the fun. But they didn’t stop. They got louder, more insistent. The cheering turned, slowly, to wonder and questioning. Attention turned from beer and new-found love and songs to the mountain side. Lights winked, hundreds, thousands, and with them came a thumping, marching drone. An unknown and unwelcome threat oozing towards Haven.

Cassandra appeared from nowhere, grabbing Grace. “We must get to the gates. Something is happening.”

*

Cullen rushed past, yelling orders to his soldiers. Some followed, others went where they were told. Over near the gates, a group paced, party far from their minds now. All faces Grace recognised. People she’d come to call friends and allies. They had their hands on their weapons, fidgeting with daggers, pommells, arrows. Cassandra and Cullen argued, Grace not paying any attention. She couldn’t see the mountain from here--view obstructed by the high stone wall. But the drum beat was audible over the quiet night air, low, menacing. This couldn’t be happening. They’d won. Surely they’d won and everything could be okay.

After an argument that Grace couldn’t follow, the gates creaked open a mere sliver, as if the menace from outside was already there. The guards admitted one man then slammed the gates behind him. The snap of the bolts and groan of the hinges no longer conveyed safety and security.

“I’m Cole,” the man said. “I came here to warn you. But I’m too late. I’m sorry.” A young man, not much younger than Grace. “The Red Templars have come to kill you.” He stared at Grace. She stepped back, stomach sinking, unable to tear her eyes from his. He looked at her, full of horror, like she’d been killed already.

Cullen got up in the boy’s face. “What are you talking about?” He looked ready to draw his sword through someone. Probably that boy.

“The Red Templar. He’s angry you stole his mages. You’ve ruined his plans,” Cole said.

“Alexius?” Dorian asked. “No no, couldn’t be. He’s not a Templar.”

“Alexius, yes. Not him though. Another. The one he bows to.”

“The Elder One.” Too many voices at the same time, all muttering and shouting and babbling, too loud, too much.

Fear lanced through Grace, pinning her feet to the ground.

“Whoever he is, we need to stop him.” Cullen turned to Grace. “Herald, that includes you.”

Grace shook her head, tears pricking but someone thrust her bow and quiver in her hands and buckled her armour on while she stood there shivering.

“If he wants you then you need to face him.” That sounded like a coward’s way out but Cullen was not a coward. He was practical, knowledgeable, and could read an enemy without seeing his face. But Grace had sealed the breach now. Her usefulness was over.

“I’m here.” Iron Bull placed his hands on Grace’s shoulders.

“As am I,” Cassandra stepped forward.

“Me too,” Dorian added.

Cullen took command. “Right, the rest of you, take up defensive positions. No prisoners. We fight to defend our victory!”

A cry went up from the troops around, the gates protesting their opening again. Grace was pushed forward, stumbling, into the first wave of attackers. She broke free from whoever held her and snuck behind Bull, seeking safety from his size. She rushed to buckle her quiver in place and pull on her gloves. Finally she took a deep breath, swore at the Maker she no longer believed existed that if she died now, after all this, she would be very, very unhappy.

The group swung into battle, Cassandra and Iron Bull taking on the heavy hitters while Grace and Dorian picked off the stragglers from a safe distance. The four worked well together. Grace hadn’t hit Bull with an arrow again and Dorian’s magic was so tightly controlled that he could let loose right near the warriors and they wouldn’t even get hit. Even in the heat of the fight, Grace could appreciate that.

They moved through the throng, cutting a path to a trebuchet, giving the Inquisition troops a chance to load and fire without being attacked. She fell into a numb rhythm. Notch, aim, fire. Notch, aim, fire. This was a rhythm Grace had come to know well over the last few months. Fast, wild, loud. Nothing like the calm of hunting deer or goats with her father. No soft footsteps, no quiet breaths. Now Grace fought for her life. Again.

More of these red templars oozed down the mountain, lights winking, and the call came out to head to the south, provide cover while engineers worked to fix up another trebuchet. Grace followed, grabbing arrows from a dead archer. They were tipped red. Lyrium perhaps. Hopefully her attackers wouldn't be immune to their own arrows.

Again the group provided cover while the engineers worked on the trebuchet. They filled the net with rocks, lumps of iron, anything they could get their hands on. Somehow, her companions cleared the area so Grace could take a breath, watch as the trebuchet sent its load flying into the mountainside. She felt the rumble before she saw the snow. The avalanche thundered down the mountain, snuffing out the lights from the Templars marching to claim their prize.

Grace turned to Dorian, ecstatic. He laughed, relieved as well. Bull slapped an engineer on the back, told them to get back to safety. From the look in his eye, he wanted a go firing that thing.

No time though. The ground rumbled again, but not from an avalanche. A screech shook Grace’s body and she looked up: a dragon flew over head. A dragon! Black and scaly, it breathed a sulphurous  fire over Haven, setting cabins alight. Grace huddled against a rock until the beat of its wings retreated into the distance.

Cassandra grabbed her, dragging her up. “Come on. We must return to Cullen.”

They ran as fast as they could, stumbling over rocks and splintered planks, bodies both friend and foe. As they passed the burning tavern, Grace heard a cat meowing.

“Wait!” She put her scarf over her mouth and nose and ran into the building, spotting Wiggles II on a ceiling beam.

“Help, my lady! Help me!” A woman’s voice.

There, on the floor, Flissa, trapped behind a burning log. Grace kicked the log out the way and pulled her up.

“Thank you, Herald, thank you.”

“Get to the chantry,” Grace yelled, pushing her away.

She looked back up at the beam, unsure as to how she could get the cat down.

Dorian grabbed her. “No time.”

“But we need to save as many as we can,” Grace cried.

Dorian glared at her. “Yes. People.” He pointed up the path that Cassandra and Bull had taken. “Over there, someone else.”

“I need to--” He dragged her by the arm, smoke stinging her eyes, the plaintive cry of her cat, a friend, beyond her help, his meows drowned in the chaos.

By the time they’d made it back to the gates, they’d saved a handful of other people but Grace hadn’t heard or seen any more of her cats. Cullen welcomed them, called them through the gates, soldiers slamming them behind. That dragon flew over again, lower, the wind from its wings almost sending Grace toppling.

“To the Chantry,” Cullen shouted.

What was the bloody point of closing the gate when there was a bloody dragon flying overhead? Still, they made it to the chantry, doors closing behind them. Muted fighting continued outside while Grace panted, leaning on her knees. Her arm ached, itchy tears streaming down her cheeks, lungs burning.

Chaos inside. People crying and wailing, shouting. Cullen stood with Leliana and the boy, Cole, their swords and daggers drawn, ready for trouble. Cullen turned from his rushed words with the pair to Grace.

“You need to get out there, Herald. That dragon has killed any hope of winning. Haven is lost. We will evacuate as many as we can. Roderick knows a path through the mountains.” He looked behind him, at the guards rousing people, corralling them into order for their escape. “Just make those bastards work for it,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Make them work for it? You can’t be serious. You can’t send me out there!”

“Herald, you need to fight,” Cullen urged.

The boy spoke up. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He’s only here for the Herald.” He turned to Grace. “He wants you dead.”

Grace shook. “Why?”

Dorian stepped forward, his hand on Grace’s shoulder, trembling. “You saw what will happen if we let this Elder One succeed. I won’t let that happen.”

“One last hit with that trebuchet,” Cullen said, opening the door.

Cassandra and Bull pushed her out, Dorian following.

“No! You can’t!” Grace lunged forward, towards safety, but Bull held her back as Cullen and Cole closed the door.

“What am I supposed to do?” Tears streamed, great hiccup sobs heaving up her throat. She should be inside, where it was safe. She should be across the sea, tucked up in bed. She should be chiding Sebastian for sneaking home in the early hours of the morning. She should be having breakfast with her mother and father.

Dorian cupped her face in his hands. “You need to fight, Gracie. Find out why this Elder One wants you dead and kill him before he kills you.”

Bull squeezed her shoulders. “I’m not leaving you, Boss. I’m good at killing things.”

“As am I.” Cassandra drew her sword.

That comforted Grace little. She considered making a break, running away, hiding until all this was over. But she couldn’t. She could barely walk, let alone run. She moved because Bull pushed her forward, his momentum sending her closer to danger and further away from safety.  
*

When the bells first started tolling, Seanna rushed to the stables, grabbing the stable hands she could find on the way. Dennett was already there, trying to calm the horses. Too many were rearing, frightened and frothing.

“Saddle who you can. I’ll find riders for them,” he ordered.

Seanna went straight to Faith. She stood in her stall, shaking. “There there, you’re going to be okay.” She let Seanna stroke her, let her put on a saddle. Seanna tried not to rush or panic but Maker, the the yelling came louder, fighting as well. Seanna left Faith in her stall and moved on, saddling as many horses as she could but not all would let her near them. She left those ones, going down the line. Dennett had already let some loose. He would probably have to do the same with these ones. They would have to find their own safety. She got to Crusher. He snorted and stamped his foot but otherwise behaved. Good boy.

Back outside, Dennett explained the situation to the gathered riders. “Get out, as many of you as you can. Pick up the weak if you can. We will make our way up the mountains, through the passes. Keep close and keep warm.”

With surprising calm, the riders lined up to take a horse. Seanna lead them out, one by one, helping them mount before going back and fetching the next.

When only Dennett was left, Seanna dashed back and led Crusher outside. Dennett jumped up while Seanna returned for Fatih. She calmed her the best she could as she swung up and walked her outside. Dennett had gained a couple of passengers: a mother and child, both crying.

“We need to leave,” he said. “Follow me and stay close.”

“What about the Herald?” Seanna’s voice caught, fear catching up to her.

“She will be fine. The commander and the qunari will look after her. Come on.”

Too many questions bubbled up. Where were they going? How could they possibly think to escape? Who was out there, after them all? Why were they attacking? Who else could they save? But there was no time for answers. Scuffed snow made a path, hoofprints and human both. Seanna rode with tears in her eyes. She’d left Grace--Grace oh how it stung to even think her name--behind to whatever enemy was down there. She was escaping, running away. Again. And this time on Grace’s own horse, the chestnut mare that had captured Grace’s heart so long ago.

She should turn around, go back. She should fight but how could she? She knew nothing of battle. She could help more people escape, but she’d done the best she could already, getting at least twenty horses and riders away. Still, she pulled on Faith’s reins, bringing her to a stop. Crisp air nipped her face as she turned and looked back. They’d come far in not much time, gained a lot of height. Through the gaps in the trees, Haven lay below, a mess of red and yellow fires, green and blue magic. Fighting echoed up the valley, barely reaching her. She shivered. Maker, she’d left with only the clothes on her back. How would she survive the night?

Grace was down there, fighting for her, for them all. Again. A sob caught in Seanna’s throat. She should’ve asked Grace for a dance. She should have apologised again. But in her heart of hearts, she knew she couldn’t have.

Far ahead, Dennett called. She turned Faith towards the mountain and pushed forward. She would have to keep going and hope.

*

  
If anything happened to Grace, then they were all fucked so Bull took it upon himself to keep her as safe as he could. If that meant yelling a little louder, drawing more attention to himself, swinging his axe so hard his shoulders threatened to pop, then so be it. She’d never looked more afraid. And her hand kept pulsing an unearthly green. He didn’t know if it still hurt her, couldn’t tell if the tears running down her cheeks were from pain or fear. Both, probably.

The group had made their way back to a trebuchet with little incident. With no engineers and no time to argue, Bull took charge, loading the trebuchet, setting it up, winding the tension. Would’ve fired it too had that fucking dragon not flown over breathing fire and wreaking destruction. The fire burned everything. Trees, houses, even the snow. Between the smoke and ash, Bull could barely see a thing.

A blast knocked him clean off his feet, his axe flying right out his hand. Dorian smacked into him and he went out, cold.  
*  
Grace rubbed her head where it’d hit a rock. Looked like her quiver was the only thing that’d stopped her getting knocked out altogether. She crawled to her hands and knees, spitting blood, stomach roiling with nausea. Her head pounded, a roar in her ears. Out of the flames walked a man. No, not a man. Not anymore. His skin boiled and peeled, red lyrium impaling his body and armour.

She scrambled to her feet, staggering backwards, only to stop dead when the ground rumbled and the air vibrated. Fire licked her boots, the stench of rotting meat slipping up her nostrils. She knew if she turned around, she’d see a dragon. She didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. It gnashed its teeth, terrifyingly close, sickly heat on the back of her neck. She trembled, warm wet leaking down her trousers, unable to stop herself. A bust of embarrassment flared even as the terrifying man stalked her.  
*  
Shit, his ankle hurt. His bad one. Not like he’d twisted it either. Like a rock had landed on it, pinning him. He rubbed the snow and dust from his good eye, feeling the scratch of grit under his eyepatch. His axe lay just out of reach. And that was no rock on his foot.

“Hey, Vint. You still alive?” Bull wiggled his foot, hissed as pain lanced up his leg. Couldn’t let that bother him now. “Vint. Dorian.”

He sat up, grabbed a handful of Dorian’s armour and dragged him off. The relief on his ankle was immediate. Dorian though, he didn't look so good.

“Come on. Don’t be so dramatic. Get some of this down you.” Bull popped the cork on a bottle of potion, stuck the opening into Dorian’s mouth and forced it down.

Dorian spluttered, coughing it up. He grabbed the bottle from Bull and finished it off himself, muttering Tevene expletives under his breath like he thought Bull wouldn’t know what he was saying.

“Yeah, well landing on me is probably what saved your sorry ass. You can thank me later,” Bull replied in Tevene.

Dorian glared at him before looking around. “Where’s Gracie?” he asked.

Bull got to his feet and grabbed his axe.

“And where’s the Seeker? Where’s Cassandra?” Dorian sounded frantic, his hand a fiery ball, magic whirling around him. Bull didn’t like that, didn’t like that one bit.

“I’m here.” Cassandra called out, stumbling over to the men. Blood dripped from her nose, smeared over her lips. “We need to get out of here before it is too late.”

“What about Grace?” Both men spoke at the same time.

“We can search for her from higher ground. Where we are, it’s not safe.”

Bull looked around and realised Cassandra was right. The trebuchet was just above them, still in position. Grace should be up there. He strained to catch any sound of her, calling for help, crying, anything. But all he could hear was crackling and burning and a deep, low thrum.

“Wait,” he said. The others turned. “The trebuchet. I’ll set it off. That might buy us some time.”

Cassandra looked like she might object, but thought better of it. Bull took the lead, scrambling up the slope, over burning rocks and planks to reach the higher ground.

The trio stuck their heads above the ledge in time to see some monster lift Grace off the ground by her wrist. Her hand pulsed green, magic whirling around something round in the monster’s other hand, a ball or orb. Grace’s eyes were wide with terror as she dangled, limp, but not dead. Not dead. Bull went to fight that bastard but Dorian held him back.

“Don’t! We don’t know what magic he’s using. If we interfere, we could kill her.”

Bull sank back down. Dorian was right. But Grace was in trouble and he was supposed to just hide and watch? That massive dragon lurked right behind her and this monster guy. This wasn’t like that dragon in the Hinterlands. This was something bigger, nastier. It was no normal dragon, of that he was sure.

Red and green swirled around Grace and the monster, Grace crying out in pain. She shook, kicked, trying to get free. The monster stared between Grace’s hand and the orb in his hand, disgusted.

“You spoiled the anchor with your stumbling. So be it. I will not suffer an unknowing rival. You must die.” He threw her back and she landed with a thump against a rock, letting out another cry. He started walking up to her, fists clenched and Bull knew this would be it. Couldn’t be too rash though, didn’t want her dead, only this guy. Couldn’t trust his aim in throwing a dagger--too shaky. Distraction, then.

The trebuchet was still loaded and ready to fire so Bull snuck over the lip before Dorian or Cassandra could hold him back, drew his dagger and cut the rope. The arm rounded in an arc, sending the pile of rocks flying into the night air. Couldn’t hear the contact, just the deep rumble as the mountain side gave way. Bull kept his eye on Grace, ready to dart out and grab her when the monster’s back was turned. Only, he didn’t turn. His dragon screeched, deafening, its wing beat dragging the monster to it, enveloping him within his wings, then they flew off. Bull looked around, couldn’t see Grace anywhere. Had that thing--

Cassandra grabbed him by the brace. “Come on, Iron Bull. Haven will be covered.”

“Grace--”

“We will find her. Let’s go.”

The three ran, the thundering of rocks and snow and trees pulled from their roots growing louder. Just as they got to the Chantry, a plaintive meow pierced the air. Tiger. Bull ran around the side of the chantry to where Grace fed the cats, grabbed the little furball but couldn’t see any of the others, then backtracked and ran into the Chantry. He followed Cassandra and Dorian down stairs, through a tunnel, all dank and dark, until the damp chill told him he was in the belly of a mountain.

The three stopped, caught their breaths. Not much light in here, though a torch up ahead was lit. Dorian supplemented it with a ball of flame in his hand. Bull looked at him and Cassandra in the ghastly glow. Their faces dipped in shadow, making them look older than they were, covered in grime and sweat and blood. They waited for the rumbling to subside until the only sound they could hear was their own breathing.

“Who’s coming with me?” Bull asked. He needn’t have bothered. The others followed him as he retraced his steps.

Cassandra and Dorian nattered behind him, talking about who the monster was and what he wanted. Some Tevinter god, it seemed. Fucking Vints. Always aspiring for greatness. Bull kept half an ear on their conversation, committing to memory the details he’d need for his report. He could see the expression on the Arishok already: utter disdain. Always the Vints. He wondered if he’d get called back, if they’d think the shit he’d sent was so outlandish to be faked.

Finally they hit a dead end. What? There hadn't been any deviations or side tracks to take. Bull stared at the pile of rocks. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him but rage took over instead. With a roar, he swung his axe at the rocks but it just glanced off in a shower of sparks.

Dorian had a go, throwing magic at the wall. No use.

“We need to meet with Cullen, take stock, reenergise.” Cassandra’s voice echoed in the tunnel. “We cannot launch a rescue mission just us three. Let us go.”

As much as Bull wanted to protest, he knew she was right. He didn’t just have himself to think about, after all. Tiger wriggled in his pocket. He hadn’t been able to save Grace, but he had saved Tiger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure they'd actually trust a scarecrow man, and I don't think that Bull and Cass in particular would escape without Grace. They'd fight and search to their deaths, BUT, this is what I have.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end, at last.

Grace’s head ached, stars behind her eyes. She groaned as she rubbed the back of her head. “Bull?” she called. “Iron Bull! Dorian? Cassandra? Hello?”

No answer. The silence was deafening. Her whole body ached but as she flexed her arms and legs, fingers and toes, she concluded she hadn’t broken anything. Thank the Maker. She didn’t have her bow though, only an empty quiver. She felt around her boots and belt, relieved when her fingers brushed the hilts of her daggers.

She looked around, trying to figure out where she was. Above her, far above, a speck of light shone. She must’ve fallen. Ahead, a slight glow, bluish. Not from a torch. Perhaps an exit to outside. She picked herself up, crying at a stab of pain in her arm, and started walking.

Wind whirled around the exit of the tunnel, whipping at Grace’s cloak, her hair. She shivered, peering through the falling snow but it came down so thick she couldn’t see far very far ahead. An orange glow in the distance, maybe. She stepped out and immediately got blown over. She lay in the snow, unable to cry. The tears froze before they could escape. She couldn't get up, couldn’t move, legs stiff and cold. So cold. She’d stay here and freeze to death. She’d never get home.

She didn’t care any more.

“Gracie, what are you doing on the ground?”

She looked up, a fuzzy figure crouched beside her. But she knew that voice. “Sebastian! What are you doing here?”

“Taking you home, of course.” His features remained fuzzy as he wrapped his cloak around her and helped her to her feet. “Come here. You must be freezing.”

“I want to go home, Bassy.”

“We’re going home, come on, let’s go.” He cooed encouragements as he lead her through the snow, holding onto her hand. He told her all about a tourney he’d participated in, how his training was progressing. Wiggles had a litter, all survived, all healthy. Hunter caught a rabbit and left the hind quarters in the kitchens. Cook had shrieked.

“Mother and Father can’t wait to see you again. They’ve missed you,” Sebastian said.

Mother and Father. Grace missed them as much as she missed Ostwick. Another voice, dim, lost on the wind, told her that Mother and Father were dead, but Sebastian’s strong voice drowned out the protests.

“Mother has a man for you to meet. I bested him in the tourney. He’s a good man. He has my approval. Just think, Gracie, you could be married in the summer! How wonderful would that be? You’ll look beautiful in a white dress. I’ll be by your side, in shining armour. We’ll dance at the wedding, once you’ve danced with your husband. Remember how we used to dance, Gracie? You’d stand on my feet and I’d whirl you around the room.”

“And you’d spin me so fast I’d feel sick,” Grace laughed. “Don’t make me sick at my own wedding, Bassy. That would be rude. What is this man’s name? What house is he from?”

Grace waited for an answer but none came. She shivered, wind-blown again. She’d lost his cloak. “Bassy?” she called. “Sebastian? Where have you gone?” She looked around but she could only see endless snow. She strained to listen. Wind roared in her ears, her face numb. “Sebastian!” she cried, falling to her knees. She tried to sob but the tears wouldn’t come, ice caught in her throat, stabbing, freezing. Alone again. Darkness set in as she closed her eyes, unable to keep them open any more.

*

“There! She’s here!” Father.

“Thank the Maker.” Mother.

“Hello,” Grace mumbled as a hand rested on her cheek. Another cloak was thrown over her and she was lifted by strong arms. A warm draft found her tongue. She swallowed, heat blooming through her chest, down her arms and legs, all the way to her fingers and toes. She gulped down more when it was offered.

“You’ll be fine now. Just hold on. Stay awake a little longer, Grace.” Father sounded different. Younger. Grace opened her eyes, saw Father staring down at her, hazel eyes shining with humour, winkles at the corners. He was always laughing, always making Grace laugh. But father had brown hair, not blond.

Her head rolled to the side and she saw Mother. She looked worried, as usual. “We thought you were lost.” She sounded different, too. Since when had she spoken with an accent?

Grace reached out to Mother, grasping for her hand. When their hands connected, Grace squeezed, warmth filling her. Mother’s hand was bigger than she remembered, her grip stronger. Grace closed her eyes again and nestled against the fur of the cloak she’d been wrapped in.

“I’m sorry I made you worry. I got lost. I love you.” She fell asleep, enveloped in warmth, going home, at last.

*

Bull crept under the awning and took a seat next to Solas. Solas sponged Grace’s forehead and wiped the hair off her face. She’d been asleep for days now, bundled up under a pile of furs. The Inquisition's leaders refused to pack up camp until she’d come through.

“How’s she doing?” Bull asked.

Solas kept his attention on Grace. “She does not dream. I’ve searched the Fade for her, but she is not there. I do not know where she is.”

Grace whimpered, muttering a few words, face scrunched up.

“She keeps saying that word, ‘Bassy’. I think it is a name. She calls out to him, or her, I’m not sure,” Solas said.

“Sebastian,” Bull said. “Her brother is Sebastian.” Bull couldn’t give her her brother, but he could give her a cat. Knowing Grace, that would be just as appreciated. He pulled Tiger out from under his cloak and lifted the furs covering Grace. Tiger let out a squeak before nestling against her belly. He’d miss the little furball, but Grace needed her more.

“Let me know when she wakes up,” Bull said before ducking back out.

*

Yelling, arguing. Grace blinked, worked her tongue loose, then ducked her head under the blanket so all she could hear was the purring of the cat snuggled up next to her. She didn’t know where she was, or who she was hugging. She didn’t care. She went back to sleep.

The next time she woke, her face had been uncovered. She cracked her eyes open and saw Mother Gisele next to her. Disappointment crushed her. Who could she have expected though? In the background, the continuation of a never ending argument. She pulled the blanket over her head again.

She thought she heard Sebastian once, and her mother washing her face and singing. But as Grace woke up properly and looked around, she realised that she was far from home, that Mother and Sebastian weren’t here. She reached for the brooch pinned to her doublet, only to feel soft cotton instead. She’d been changed out of her armour, dressed in light clothes. Just as well. Her armour must’ve been filthy.

“Your jewelry is here.”

Grace followed the voice, saw Mother Giselle’s kind eyes with her hand held out. Grace picked up the ring and brooch, clutching them to her chest.

“There is someone here who has been worried about you.”

Iron Bull came into focus, looming large. He sat on the ground, brushed Grace’s hair off her face.

“Hi,” she said, smiling.

“Hey Boss,” Bull replied. His voice rumbled and she felt it low in her belly. Safe, at last. She’d be safe with Bull here.

“Where are we? What happened?” she asked.

Bull nodded to Mother Giselle while he lay his hand on her shoulder under the piles of furs. They weren’t sure where they were, not exactly, Mother Giselle said. Leliana’s scouts were out exploring the area, looking for safety. No one had been back to Haven. The place lay buried under snow. A haven no more. Grace thought of the cats that she’d left behind and fought back the urge to cry. Tiger purred against her chest. She had one, somehow, she had one cat. She didn’t remember rescuing her.

Bull picked up the story, adding details here and there. “Seanna’s here,” he said. “She made it with Faith. Dennett too, on Crusher.”

Grace nodded, not sure what to say, but pleased.

Raised voices wafted over to Grace. She winced.

“They worry. We all do. We live in troubled times.” Mother Giselle said. “These people, our leaders and brothers and sisters, we saw our saviour fall, only to rise again. What does the Maker want with you? With us?”

Grace didn’t know what the Maker could possibly want with her. She’d done enough. “I don’t care. I want to go home.”

Bull squeezed her shoulder, made a pained noise. Before she could look at him, question what was wrong, Monster Giselle stood. She sang. Her voice carried out over the camp, beautiful, melodic, calling all to join her. Soon the whole camp sang, too, their voices as one, bodies and hearts, connected. Too much. It hurt too much. Grace buried her head in the blankets and sobbed. Bull took up Mother Giselle’s seat and pulled Grace onto his lap, blankets, cat, and all, and just held her while she cried.

*

Lady Trevelyan had been through much but she couldn’t stay in this camp for ever. The Elder One, Corypheus, he still had to be dealt with. He wouldn’t give up until he had Grace dead. She had proven hard to eliminate. Solas was impressed. But the orb… that troubling orb. Still, they needed to move, the whole camp, somewhere safer. Solas searched the Fade, walked through the mountains, spoke to spirits. _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ , Skyhold, they said. He knew the place, its presence inviting, and did his best to relate the way to the scouts.

One morning, he found Grace sitting at the edge of the ashes of the previous night’s fire, staring through the world. She had a pile of arrow pieces beside her, ready to work on, but she’d done nothing, clearly. He sat next to her.

“Has Cullen spoken to you?” he asked.

Grace nodded, slow. “We march tomorrow.” She sounded defeated, drained of all life and will. He wondered if she’d be up for the journey. Her malaise had not left since she woke and seemed to be caused by more than just her adventure at Haven.

“Is there anything I can do to help you, my lady?” She was past the stage where she needed her brow sponged and her lips wetted.

“Where’s Iron Bull?” Grace asked, ignoring his question.

“Around, I’m sure.” Solas grimaced at the name. That qunari was the only one who could eke a smile from her. What his motivations were, Solas could only guess. He seemed to genuinely care for Grace and he got on well with most of the leaders and followers. But no one could guess his true feelings--if he even had any.

“Are you looking forward to the journey?” Solas asked in an attempt to shift her attention. “I am sure moving again will help us all.”

“No.” Grace slumped back down and poked her boot in the ashes as a tear rolled down her cheek.

*

Grace had to be prodded into walking on her own. Bull held her hand, half dragging her through the snow until her stumbling got too annoying. He picked her up and carried her since that was what she wanted. Cassandra glared, said something about the Herald needing to act like a leader. Bull agreed but now wasn’t the time for tough love. She’d been reduced to someone barely herself. So he carried her, alternating between holding her in his arms and giving her a piggyback, doing his best to keep Grace’s spirits up. She carried Tiger in her coat, feeding her scraps of food whenever they stopped. But she didn’t ask him any more questions about qunari. Stopped asking about Krem. He wished he could get her a bath. Fuck, he’d carry a tub on his back and wash the grime from her hair while singing lullabies in qunlat if that would make her feel better. But he knew that would only be a temporary solution. All she wanted was so far away. Iron Bull could provide none of it.

He stayed with the forward group, along with Dorian, Sera, Blackwall, Solas and Varric. Cole, their newest member, remained elusive most of the time. Bull wasn’t sure about that one. They remained mostly silent as they trudged up ridgelines and over passes, but when they stopped for breaks, that’s when they got chatty. They all had an opinion on what they should do about the Elder One, their ideas becoming more elaborate and brave the further they got from Haven. Grace didn’t join in. She stared at her soup, only drinking it down when Bull or Solas prodded her into it.

Further back, Krem kept the Chargers from grumbling too much and when Bull camped with them at night, he assured them that yes, they’d be compensated for all this extra shit.

*

Grace stared at the ground. One foot in front of the other. The same for days now. Or weeks. She stumbled every now and then, sinking up to her knee in snow, or tripping on a hidden rock. She’d curse, pick herself up, and carry on. Bull had been banished to somewhere behind her. Maker, what she’d give to have him carry her. But he’d had to put her down. She had to walk for herself, so she was told. Solas walked with her when the path was wide enough, staying mercifully quiet. She couldn’t even bring herself to ask him about the Fade. She just wanted to be alone.

More days of trudging through snow. Grace followed the footprints of those leading the way, not looking up or looking back, not knowing where she was. At camp she stared at her bowl, picked at the soup, ate just enough to stave off hunger. When she slept, she dreamt of home. Iron Bull was there sometimes, Seanna too. When she woke, she cried.

One clear morning, scouts rushed into camp, hollering. “Leliana,” they yelled, “Commander, come see!”

They scurried off, Grace raising her head enough to see them race up the ridgeline.

“Skyhold,” Solas said. Grace hadn’t even known he was with her.

“Hmm?”

“They have found Skyhold.” Solas sounded pleased. “Our refuge.”

“Better have a bar,” Bull said. Grace hadn’t known he was with her, either. He stood, casting a shadow over Grace. “Come on, let’s go see.”

Grace trudged beside Bull, his hand clamped around hers, warm and strong. They joined Cullen, Leliana and a handful of scouts at the edge of the ridge. Grace stared across the valley and as she did, the heavy, weary fog of despair that had wrapped around her parted for a moment. A fortress, built right on top of a mountain, growing out of it, even. Tall and huge, with solid stone walls, she could see that much even from this distance.

Bull squeezed her hand and whistled. “Well, would you look at that.” He smiled down at Grace. “Looks like it’ll hold a lot of cats, huh?”

Grace laughed. For the first time in weeks, she cracked a smile and laughed. It came out as a coughing bark but it was a laugh nonetheless. It almost hurt to feel something this close to happiness, to even remember what that felt like. She leant against Bull, staring at the fortress, Solas’ promised haven.

Maybe, maybe she’d be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Thank you so much for reading. I'm so glad to have finished this. It's the biggest project I've worked on. It ended up being both much smaller than I'd hoped for, but much bigger, too. I wanted to tell Grace's whole story, Skyhold and Iron Bull romance included, but had to scale it right back when I realised just how big that would be. It's taken me a little over two years to get this far! But it's out and posted and on the whole, I'm really happy with it.
> 
> I've got so much more in various states of WIPs and drafts. I'll get to them in time, working in smaller chunks, posting as shorter stories.
> 
> I've already posted From the Ashes. It's part three of this series so check that out if you want to read more of Grace being sad D:
> 
> Grace has many happy adventures to come so I won't leave her waiting long. My sweet potato needs her happy ending :)


End file.
